This song makes an appearance in a scene in one of my novels, Angel Maker. Are you old enough to remember this one?…
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This song makes an appearance in a scene in one of my novels, Angel Maker. Are you old enough to remember this one?…
Greeting friends,
Here is the 2nd chapter to Angel Maker from The Sheriffs of Robertson County series. This was a hard chapter to write. I kept ending it one way, then changing it. I had to be careful not to reveal too much at once. I shortened it by a few pages, moving them to the next chapter. We’ll see what happens with those pages.
And may I note for those of you familiar with police procedures in real life, forgive me for any absurd. This is fiction, after all, and we must have a wee bit comedy, drama, and stupid shit. đ
Anyway, enjoy. And your feedback is always welcome. Leave a comment, email me, or PM me on Facebook.
Happy reading!
***
THE SHERIFFS OF ROBERTSON COUNTY: ANGEL MAKER
When anyone saw a huge dust cloud pillowing in the air on Route 1 they knew damn well to stay off the road or move their asses to the side until the bullet whizzed by. Robertson County Sheriff Dorian Stormâs police cruiser threw rocks and dirt as the dusty gravel road crackled under the carâs revolving tires. The only person allowed to drive fast enough to kick up a sand gale like that on family-oriented Route 1, folks knew to steer clear of his path because a tragedy was at hand and one did not need to see flashing lights and hear a siren to know it.
Children watched as Storm torpedoed by, a hand canopying their eyes to shade them from the shimmering sunlight lest they miss the electrifying scene of good guy trailing bad guy. Old ladies in their church attire stopped packing the grandkids into their cars, some making the sign of the cross and silently praying for the officer, or the victim, whichever came to mind first.
On this poignant Sunday morning, Storm left his breakfast hot on the table and sped the ten miles to St. Theresaâs Cemetery to the scene where a missing little girl turned up dead. Maybe for many people a dead person isnât an emergency, misfortune maybe, but emergency, not usually. But to Storm every murder was an emergency â especially the murder of a child, for every minute wasted slacking off a killer gets further away.
The third child in a couple of months, Hope Roseland was the second female victim, and the second child found at St. Theresaâs. On a Sunday, earlier in month, seven-year old Vincent Moorhead, the second victim and the only male victim, was found in the same cemetery atop his young motherâs grave. Nancy Moorhead was killed in an auto accident in June and buried in St. Theresaâs. Shortly after her death her son disappeared and 72 hours later he showed up dead on his motherâs grave dressed in white clothing which had angel wings sewn to the back. His face and hands sparkled with glitter and a blue plastic rosary wrapped around his small hands.
In late May, the first victim, eight-year old Faye Clemens, was not found at St. Theresaâs but on the stoop of Grace Baptist Church in Marksville where the family had attended church. Her body displayed in the same fashion â an angel costume complete with wings, glitter-sprinkled skin, clutching a pink plastic rosary. Fayeâs mother, Ruthanne, died of brain cancer and left Faye in the care of her step-father who adopted Faye when she was a baby. The Clemens family lived in Janice City, and Ruthanne drove to Waco to work at a hospital where she had been a pediatric nurse. The family was originally from Plano, Texas. Ruthanneâs husband, Lee, buried her in Plano and he and Faye were planning to move back to be near Ruthanneâs family and had put their house up for sale. Then Faye disappeared on a Thursday.
âThey all disappeared on a Thursday,â Sheriff Storm said to himself.
His cell phone rang breaking his thought process.
âStorm,â he answered.
âWhere are you?â Detective Alan Keith asked.
âAlmost there.â
âCan you believe this shit?â
âNo. I canât,â Storm said.
âHear from the FBI?â
âNo and I donât want to. Letâs get this bastard. Find anything?â
âNo.â
âFigures,â Storm said.
âSee ya when ya get here,â Keith hung up.
Storm made a right onto Starry Road which lead to the cemetery entrance when his phone rang again.
âYeah, Storm,â his patience thin.
âJust a heads-up, Sheriff. State Police phoned,â Gloria Espinosa, the Sheriffâs executive secretary informed him. âThey have two units en route to St. Theresaâs. 10-54, twenty minutes.â
âAnything else?â
âNo, Sir.â
âThank you,â he disconnected the call.
Gloria Espinosa had worked for Storm for the past three years. She learned firstly and quickly that he was a man of facts only with no time for needless, idle chatter when work had to be done.
Usually the calm, genteel sort, even-spoken and a little mysterious-seeming, Storm rarely raised his voice in anger. Always in command of himself, even his movements seemed controlled. However, when his sentences came quickly and abruptly riding on unmistakable changes in character, it was best not to test his patience.
Stormâs life centered on his life with his wife and three children. He looked forward to spending time with his closest friend, Detective Alan Keith, having family barbecues, fishing, hunting, and keeping rural Robertson County crime-free. His fellow law enforcement associates always knew they could count on Storm to have their backs.
During crime downtime, he liked hearing about his associatesâ lives â life dramas, birthday parties, weddings, high school graduations, births and milestones. He grieved when they grieved; celebrated when they celebrated. He enjoyed good barbecue, great football, and horseback riding. A stern man with business on his mind and a fan of dark humor, one of his greatest joys in life was doing his grandest to chase off his sixteen year-old daughterâs potential beaus, intimidating them with his badge and no-nonsense, military-like facial expressions.
However, hello and goodbye were often too many words when he was wrapped up in work. Yet, this go around it was worse than ever. Robertson County hadnât seen crime like this in about 30 years and Sheriff Storm was at his wits end and on the hunt for a child predator along with the rest of the sheriffâs department.
Storm pulled up to the cemetery site. He exited his patrol car and slammed the door so hard Detective Keith wondered how the window didnât explode.
âHey, Dorian,â Keith greeted him.
âAlan,â Storm nodded. âShow me.â
âThis way,â Keith gestured Storm to follow him.
âSo.â Storm placed his hands on his hips, his authority sound. âWhat we got?â
âHope Roseland. Went missing Thursday evening. Found here this morning by the caretaker, Ramiro.â
âAgain?â Storm said.
âAgain,â Keith confirmed. âPoor guy. Was a nervous wreck. He said he started at seven as usual on Sundays. Was driving through here âround seven-thirty and found her.â
Keith caught Storm up on the details concerning Ramiro and his finding Hopeâs remains.
âWell?â Storm asked.
âWell, sheâs dressed like the previous female victim, Faye Clemens. Angel costumeâŚwhite and gold dress complete with wings. Glitter on her face. Pink rosary. No apparent signs of struggle. No bruising, no wounds. Medical Examinerâs coming. Should be here soon.â
Storm sighed.
âUm,â Keith took his cowboy hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. âWe have the whole place taped off now. Told Father Joe he can have mass this morning but the people canât come out here and he needs to let them know during mass.â
âDid you tell him to stick around?â
âI told him weâll have to talk to him after services. I ordered him not to go tellinâ them thereâs a dead kid out here.â
âGood. We donât need panic.â
âI think theyâll know anyway,â Keith said. âYou know small-town folk. Got a nose for drama.â
Stormâs attention had already departed as he surveyed the corpse and his eyes combed the surrounding area.
âIt canât be,â Storm said, though it seemed he was talking more to himself than to Keith.
âDorian,â Keith said. Lost in thought Storm didnât answer. âDorian!â
Stormâs head snapped in his direction. He shook his head and shrugged. âWhat?â
âThis canât have anything to do with the Angel Killer. You know that,â Keith said. âThat monster isnât back.â
âMaybe not, Alan. I mean. Really. I donât think these murders were committed by the Angel Killer. Could just be coincidence. Maybe theyâre attempts at copycatting. Maybe the killerâs a fan. Either case, now thereâs two monsters.â
âWell, copycat could be an answer. But why now?â Keith said.
âI donât know,â Storm shook his head. âIf this is an imitator, whoever it is isnât very good at being cruel. Sends them into eternal sleep with pills. And why kids? Doesnât try to tack or nail wings to the back. Puts them in costumes instead.â
âAngel Killerâs victims were grown women,â Keith pointed out. âAll brown-eyed white women too, if I remember right. This oneâs killing kids of both races. Both sexes.â
âShare a similar M.O. Signatures too. Donât they?â Stormâs eyes narrowed as his mind raced back in time. âAngel MakerâŚuh, Angel Killer, abducted the women on Thursdays. Usually from right outside their homes or from their garages. They were always dumped in some rural place to be discovered on Sundays.â
âThereâs the whole angel thing. The rosaries,â Keith shrugged. âThe similarities are too close for comfort, Iâll give you that.â
âGlitter,â Storm gestured toward Hopeâs face.
âAngel Killer hasnât been active since â77.â Keith said. âHe strangled his victims? I wonder if he had kids.â
âThere were seven victims. Two suffocated, the rest strangled. Look how Hope looks,â Storm said. âSo peaceful. Like an angel. A real one.â He contemplated, blew out a breath and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple with his hand. âYou know, I felt the media had it wrong and I labeled the Angel Killer the Angel Maker when I was a kid. I thought that people couldnât be angels. So he wasnât killing angels. He was making them. I fancied that good people became angels after they died.â He smiled at the absurdity of childhood fancy.
âIs it known for sure the killer was a man?â Keith questioned.
âAuthorities always referred to the Angel Killer as a he. But, this isnât him. I hope.â
âWeâre going to figure this out,â Keith assured him. âYa know, Dorian. I donât think itâll hurt if we take a look at the Angel Killer cases again. You know? In case thereâs any connection. We can get it out of our systems then.â
Storm nodded. âGuess we shouldnât rule it out. That the cases are connected.â He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. âFrigginâ hot out here. Iâm so sick of the heat. Any more kids been reported missing within the last couple days?â
âNot that I know of. Iâll check. Think he might have already nabbed another kid?â
âLetâs hope not.â
âDeputies Miller, Wallace and me combed the immediate area. Wallace took pictures. Nothinâ here, Dorian. Not a shred of evidence to be had. If this one was given sleeping pills too, she wasnât killed here. Looks like the killer just carried her and laid her here, positioned her hands like that with the rosary and took off. Like before.â
âWhoeverâs doing this is taking these kids someplace theyâll be content for awhile. Someplace familiar to the killer. An environment either familiar to the kids too, or maybe a place theyâd be comfortable in.â
âHome?â Keith asked.
âHome.â Storm confirmed. âOr someplace a whole lot like home. Theyâre all well taken care of before theyâre poisoned. The killer might be taking these kids right to his house. And itâs a place that would be relaxing. A nice, clean, orderly place.â
âMaybe the priest can help us,â Keith suggested as he crouched next to Hopeâs body and lifted the end of the crucifix with his pen. âRosaries. How many religions use these? I want to talk to the caretaker again too.â
âWhereâs the crime scene techs?â Storm asked.
âGood question.â
âWhat?â Storm asked.
âItâs Sunday,â Keith said.
âI donât care,â Storm said as his hands flew up in the air and hovered there. âWhat the hell.â He dropped them back down in a swift but controlled motion.
âBoss, you know this ainât New York City,â Keith smiled, trying to lighten Stormâs mood.
âThereâs almost sixteen-thousand people in this county spread out over 850 miles. You see, Alan? This is why they call us hicks.â
âThey, who? Besides, hick is short for hillbilly. We ainât hillbillies, Dorian. Weâre rednecks. Remember?â Keith smiled and stood still, hands on his hips, waiting for his friend to get through his tangent.
Stormâs right eyebrow arched as that nerve pulsated near his temple. âWho the hell doesnât have even one crime scene tech ready because itâs Sunday?â Storm continued. âIs this, or is this not, the Twenty-first Century? You know what? That will change. We need more detectives for this area too. You know, me, you and Brian canât do all this shit by ourselves just because itâs Sunday.â
âDorian, we have plenty of detectives.â
âWe need crime scene investigators.â
âBrian is a crime scene investigator,â Keith pointed out.
âHeâs a detective. We need actual civilian specialists to take control. Specialists who deal with nothing but this. Cops just donât have time for all this. And fuck it.â His right arm went flying out, then he crossed his arms over his chest. âI donât even know what Iâm fucking talking about.â
âDorianâŚâ Keith started to talk but couldnât get a word in.
âFuck Sunday,â Storm said. âKids are being murdered. From here on out â no more Sundays. And I donât give a damn who doesnât like it.â
Storm was right and Keith felt he had nothing to say about it.
âBy the way. Where the hell is Brian?â
âHeâs off today,â Keith said, then prepared for Stormâs fit.
âWhat did I just say? And whenâs the last time you had a Sunday off?â Storm rarely got loud, even when he was considered to be yelling. But his facial expressions and flying arms always told the truth.
âWell, I donât have small kids anymore, Dorian. I donât mindâŚâ
Storm cut him off. âYou get on that horn to Detective Brian Jones and tell him to get his ass off that new wife of his and get to work. Iâm here. If I can be here, everyone can be here. And heâs a crimeâŚsceneâŚinâŚvesâŚtiâŚgaâŚtor,â Storm overstressed as he grabbed hold of the firearm fastened at his side and leaned forward for emphasis.
âI already called. He should be here soon.â
âSheriff, Detective,â Paramedic Justus approached them. Medical Examinerâs arrived.â He looked back toward the vehicle where the examiner was digging out his gear. âWe stuck around to help tape off the area,â he gestured toward St. Theresaâs Church across the road from the main cemetery entrance. Despite the long distance they could see the mounting mass of people. âThereâs a crowd gathering in the parking lot. M.E. wonât need us to transport. Weâll be going if you donât need anything else.â
âNah, nothing,â Keith said. âGo on back to work.â
âSure? Deputy Millerâs over there. The cemeteryâs roped off. But that groupâs gettinâ big. Churchâll be out soon too to add to the anxiety.â
 âStateâs on their way and more deputies are en route.â
Justus nodded, took one last look at Hope Roseland then went back to the ambulance where E.M.T. Walker sat in the driverâs seat waiting for him.
âWhat the hell was Storm slinginâ those arms around like that for?â Walker asked. âI hate when he does that. Heâs always so managed. Like a robot..until someone lights his fire.â
âHeâs pissed,â Justus said.
âGlad weâre leaving.â
âI donât blame him. What the hell,â Justus said. âThis isnât 1900. Murder doesnât stop for Sunday.â
âActually,â Walker said, her eyes roving the crime scene as she pulled away, âit seems like it waits for Sundays lately.â
Storm slowly walked away from the corpse, his eyes cemented to the ground searching.
âHow far did you guys get?â Storm asked.
âAbout fifty feet in diameter,â Keith said.
âI want this entire cemetery raked. Nobody, and I mean nobody, should be traipsing around in here but us. We canât afford to spoil the scene. Turn over every leaf, every twig, every piece of debris.â
âI plan on it. Well, hereâs reinforcements,â Keith said as two Texas State Police squads cruised to a stop.
âGreat. State troopers and still no one from crime scene.â
âShould we wait for âem, or just get the troopers?â
Storm started to respond as the church bells rang and broke his concentration.
âItâs getting late,â Medical Examiner Cody Summers walked up. âLet me do this so I can get the body out of here. Mercuryâs rising by the minute.â
âSheâs a girl,â Keith said.
âExcuse me?â
âI said, sheâs a girl. Not a body,â Keith said.
âOkay,â the M.E. shrugged. âSheâs a girl.â He bent down to inspect her.
âIâll be back,â Detective Keith said. âHave to get someone over to help Miller and Wallace by the church and the main entrance.â He rushed across the cemetery toward the troopersâ vehicles just as two more deputy patrols approached. He spun around and yelled out to Storm. âCrime scene!â He pointed toward the main gate and the entering crime scene vehicle.
âWhatâs wrong with this place?â M.E. Summers asked.
âWhat do you mean?â Storm asked.
âI donât know. Why are there state troopers here?â
âBecause. Robertson County residents love to lollygag around on Sundays,â Storm stated.
M.E. Summers shrugged. âI guess.â
Summers went on with his examination of Hope Roselandâs corpse, taking notes as Storm observed.
âWell?â Storm rushed him.
âWell,â Summers said, âof course, we have a female, black, approximately age seven to nine. Just like the others before her: no apparent signs of trauma or cause of death.â He inhaled deeply and looked up at the sky. âFactoring for heat…whew! itâs hotâŚshe died seven to ten hours ago. Lividity is evident, indicating she died on her back. Check out this blanching on her left calf. Strange.â
Storm bent down to investigate as Keith stepped up next to him and followed suit.
âWhat is that?â Keith said.
âI canât tell,â Summers said.
Storm bolted upright. âWhat was she wearing when she disappeared?â
Keith dug a small notepad out of his shirt pocket. âA purple shirt and black jeans,â Keith said. âHer leg was exposed when that mark occurred.â
âYes,â Summers said. âThe markâs actually nicely pronounced. Unidentifiable right now, but distinct enough that it might be of some use.â
âSo, the killerâs got the kids changing in to these clothes before they die?â Keith pondered.
âOr the killer changes the kidsâ clothing right after they die,â Summers added as he took photos of the mysteries mark on Hopeâs leg. âBefore any blood pooling.â
âWe need an image of that magnified,â Storm ordered.
M.E. Summers made a note in his memo book. âI have a feeling the tox screen will come back the same as before. Oxicodone overdose. Extended-release OxyContin.â
Storm glanced at his watch âCaretaker found her at seven-thirty this morning. Thatâs two hours ago.â
âAnd?â Keith asked.
âHe starts at seven,â Storm shrugged. âWhoever did this came through here well before the sun came up. What time was sunrise this morning?â
âSix-forty, six-forty-five maybe,â Deputy Dwyer answered from behind. âGood morning, Sheriff.â She nodded toward the detective and the M.E. âKeith, Summers. Fine morning to ya.â
âWell, it is morning,â Summers declared. âFine is yet to be determined.â
âHeâs got a good point,â Keith tipped his hat to Dwyer.
âDeputy Dwyer,â Storm greeted her. âHowâs your husband?â
âDoing okay. Thanks,â she smiled.
âGood, good. Cancerâs still in remission?â Storm asked.
He remembered, she reflected to herself. âAnd, thankfully so. Thanks for asking, sir.â
âGood, good,â Stormâs demeanor changed almost instantly, if only for a moment. âWell, tell him weâre thinking of him.â
Dwyer nodded, trying to hold back her emotions.
âIâm done here, Sheriff. Now itâs up to the autopsy,â the M.E. Summers said. âThereâs Investigator Jones.â
âDetective,â Dwyer corrected.
âWhatever,â Summers said. âWho knows anymore. One day heâs Investigator, the next Detective. I donât even think he knows what his real title is. Isnât that right, Investigator Jones?â
âCall me whatever you like,â Jones said with his mouth full of doughnut as he strolled up carrying a half-eaten chocolate covered long-john and a to-go cup of coffee. âJust as long as thereâs a crime scene.â He smiled. âSorry, Sheriff. I was off today.â
âYouâre always off,â Dwyer kidded her younger cousin.
âJones?â Storm said.
âYes, sir?â
âGet rid of that damned doughnut, will you?â
Dwyer muffled a laugh as she pointed a teasing finger at her cousin and mouthed, Ha haâŚYouâre in trouble. Then stuck her tongue out.
âLetâs get busy,â Storm kindly commanded.
Â
Copyright 2013 Wanda S. Paryla
As promised, here is Chapter One of Angel Maker. This is a draft, of course, and subject to change, but I hope you enjoy it!
If you didn’t get a chance to read the prologue which I posted last month, you can find it here. Read it first, if you have time. It’s the book’s setup.
***
The Sheriff’s of Robertson County: Angel Maker
CHAPTER ONE
Â
July 2008 – Robertson County, Texas
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Barely mounted in the morning sky, the sun sizzled; muggy air brewed like heat from a steaming cup of tea. The desert willow trees cast shadows around the cemetery that played heavily with Ramiroâs imagination, showering him with shivers on that sweltering morning. On every morning.
Driving slowly around, he strained to see beyond the lines of tombstones, praying to avoid a ghostly encounter of any kind. Twenty years of working in St. Theresaâs Cemetery, all hours of the day and night, equipped him with many an impressive, spooky tale.
âYeah, yeah. I know, Linda,â Ramiro talked into his cell phone as his old beat up pickup truck crept along the isolated cemetery road. âI told him that ten times already! Jesus, Mary, Joseph!
âHe doesnât listen. At all. That boy!â His wife, Linda, said.
âNope. Nope. AndâŚandâŚwhat? Wait. Who the hell is that?â
âWhoâs where?â His wife asked.
Ramiro brought the truck to a halt and peered out the open window, trying to make out a form through the shade of the trees.
âWait, wait, Linda,â he turned off the engine. âI have to go. Somethingâs wrong. Iâll call you later.â
âBe careful, Ramiro,â was coming from the earpiece when he flipped his cell closed and dropped it into his pocket as he exited the truck. Afraid it might be a vagrant of the unlawful element, he grabbed a hoe from the pickup bed. He eased cautiously toward what appeared to be a person lying on the ground.
âHey! You there! What you doing?â
When there was no response, Ramiro cagily studied the person from a distance then scanned the area looking for other people. He construed that the person lying on the grass was a child, a girl, dressed in a white and gold dress. She was laying on a grave on her back, her head near the tombstone.
âLittle girl, you okay?â He said as he cautiously drew nearer. âYou asleep?â
Did she move? He crouched down and reached out to the unnatural-looking sleeping child.
âHey, howâd you get here?â He touched her bare arm to wake her. âWhereâs your mommy and daddâŚoh shit!â He drew his hand back, dropped the hoe, fell onto his butt and scuttled like a spider away from the youngster. âNo. Not today.â
Ramiro fought for control of his shaking body but it was useless as his emotions could not decide between breaking down in sobs or to scream. He heard his own heart pounding. Â He closed his eyes and turned his head away; then reopened his eyes one at a time. They settled on an old pecan tree. He took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to secure his nerves.
âOh, Jesus, Mary, JoâŚoh this isnât real,â he said to the tree. âWhatâs going on here?â His eyes wandered toward the child but stopped short as his courage failed. He made the sign of the cross as his eyes flitted back to the tree. After a couple more deep breaths, he blinked hard, trying to clear his watery eyes. He gradually turned his head toward the child, hoping sheâd be gone. But she wasnât.
Ramiro knew he had to look at her. She deserved that much from him. A black child of about eight, dressed in a white and gold angel costume complete with wings. She wore a halo, had glitter dusted over her cheeks and a pink plastic rosary in her hand. Her flesh was an ashy color and she resembled a dark marble statue lying there. Despite her appearance, there was a peaceful look upon her face.
Ramiro winced and whimpered a little as he gathered himself. The reality truly hit him when he realized that he knew her.
âOh, God. Hope!â he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.
âShit! Why does this kind of shit always happen to me?â
â911. Whatâs yourâŚâ
âListen, Iâm at St. Theresaâs Cemetery. Thereâs someone dead here.â
The operator on the line fell silent for a moment.
âHello?â Ramiro said.
âIs this a joke?â the operator asked.
Taken aback by her question Ramiro spoke his urgency all in one winded sentence.
âLook this is no joke lady goddamn it why would I call and make a joke like this? Whatâs wrong with you people!â
âOkay, sir. Calm down. I apologize. Whatâs your name?â
âRamiro. Iâm the grounds manager at St. Theresaâs,â he started to breathe heavy. âI was making my morning roundsâŚoh, god, thereâs a dead kid here. Send someone.â
âOkay, Ramiro. Settle down. Where in the cemetery are you?â
âAround on the south side of the mausoleum,â he directed.
âOfficers are on their way, okay? My name is Rita, by the way.â
âOh, okay, Rita.â
âRamiro, Iâll stay with you on the line until they get there. Tell me whatâs going on. How did you find the child?â
âI always start earlier on Sundays because of church. I check things out. Clean up any messes. Oh, God. What a mess Iâve got now. Anyway, I was driving and I saw a person lying on the ground. Thought it was someone asleep. Maybe drunk or homeless. Checked it out. Itâs a dead kid. SheâsâŚsheâs dressed like an angel. Another angel!â
âDo you recognize the child at all?â
 âItâs Hope. Sheâs been missing. Oh, Jesus, Mary, Joseph.â
âWhatâs the childâs name again, Ramiro?â
âHopeâŚHope Roseland. Karla Roselandâs girl. Poor KarlaâŚsheâs dead too. Only about a month now. Phil must be worried sick. Oh. Heâll die when he finds this out.â
Rita fell quiet.
âHello?â He asked.
âIâm here. Iâm checking for information on Hope. I see she disappeared about 72 hours ago. Thereâs a missing persons report made by her father, Phillip Roseland.â
âYes, Phil. They attend church here. Well, they did before Karla died. Phil and Hope havenât really been back sinceâŚsince then. But, they did come to the cemetery.â
âIâve informed the deputies regarding Hope. Itâll be a few minutes more before they get there, Ramiro.â
âOkay. They should hurry up.â
âThey are,â Rita assured him.
âRamiro, did you see or hear anyone else around the cemetery this morning?â
âNo.â
âWas there anyone else around when you first reported to work?â
âNo. No,â Ramiro said, taking off his ball cap with his free hand and wiping his forehead with his shirt sleeve.
Rita engaged Ramiro with conversation, trying to ease his nerves. Being a rural region, it always took law enforcement a good amount of time to get to most areas.
âRamiro, deputies are inside the cemetery heading toward you.â
âI see them now. Thanks,â He flipped the phone closed and took off for the road as a squad car pulled up near his truck.
The small, well-kept, 20-acre cemetery of St. Theresaâs was sandwiched between two unincorporated tiny Texas towns, Janice City and Marksville. Both towns were serviced by the Robertson County Sheriffâs Department, being as they had no police departments of their own.
A ghost town with less than three-hundred adult residents â most retired or single, Marksville was the smaller of the two and rarely saw serious crime outside of some drug sales or bar fights. Murder, however, was unheard of. There were only a few businesses in town, among them was the Lone Star Bar, a Mobile gas station and convenience store, Leanneâs Beauty and Nails salon, and the tiny Grace Baptist church.
Janice City was a larger town, home to over six-hundred adults, complete with two small cafes, an ice cream shop, two mechanic garages, a realty office, a high school and two grammar schools â one public and St. Theresaâs Catholic School. Janice City was going through the incorporation process, and the city council was scrambling to raise the funds for their own police services. On the border of Janice City was St. Theresaâs Catholic Church to which the cemetery was adjacent. St. Theresaâs Cemetery was the land bridge, so to speak, linking the two small towns. All of the townâs teens were bussed over to Janice City for high school.
The two deputies approached Ramiro. In their rural home, Ramiro and Deputies Wallace and Miller were not complete strangers.
âRamiro?â Deputy Wallace greeted him.
âYes, thank heavens, Deputy. Come. This way,â he gestured for them to follow.
âAmbulance is on the way,â Deputy Miller added.
âOh, no,â Ramiro said, shaking his head at her. His voice trembled as he walked faster, losing his breath. âNo need. There, maâam.â He pointed to the still child.
The officers walked to the child and Miller bent down and felt for a pulse.
âNo need for that either,â Ramiro said. âSheâs dead.â He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. âWhy does this shit always happen to me?â
âGone?â Wallace asked.
Miller looked up at Wallace and nodded. âFor a while now.â
âThis is insane,â Wallace stated as he bent down to analyze the body. âWho the hell does shit like this?â
As ambulance sirens drew closer, Miller stood up and dug out her notepad.
âCome on, Ramiro. Letâs step away from here and talk. Iâve seen you in this cemetery over many years, havenât I?â
âYes, uh-huh. Over twenty now.â
âWhatâs your full name?â Deputy Miller lead Ramiro away from the scene to keep him focused on her questions.
âRamiro Gallardo. I live in Janice. A couple blocks from the church on the corner of Redbud and Pecan Streets,â he said. âGee. Whoâs doing these things to the kids?â
âI wish I knew,â Miller said.
âOh, boy. Itâs getting late,â he looked at his watch then glanced around nervously.
âWhatâs wrong?â
âItâs Sunday. Why couldnât this be Monday? Theyâll be coming after church. You have to take this poor kid away before church.â He made the sign of the cross. âJesus, Mary, Joseph.â
âIâm afraid thatâs not going to happen, my friend. We have to tape off the scene. Itâs best if we donât have folks wandering around the cemetery until we check the grounds for any evidence,â Miller informed. âStart from the beginning and tell me how you found the child.â
Ramiro told his story to Miller while Wallace went to the meet the ambulance as it roared up.
Wallace waved his hand. âThereâs no emergency,â he said to the driver as she hurried out of the vehicle.
âOh no,â EMT Macy Walker said. âDead?â
âSeveral hours,â Wallace informed. âAnother kid. Girl âbout eight or so. Been missing for a few days.â
âWell, let me have a look just the same,â Paramedic Will Justus said. âWe should check if the county examiner will come get the body or if we should take it. Itâs Sunday.â
Justus started toward the scene as Wallace opened the squad carâs trunk and rummaged through, pulling out a crime scene case. He flipped it open – crime scene tape, gloves, evidence bags and markers, camera, etc.
âFuck Sunday,â Wallace complained. âWhat fucking medical examiner doesnât come out because itâs Sunday?â
âWhat? Crime Scene not coming?â Walker asked.
âEventually,â Wallace shrugged. âI hope. We have to close off the entire cemetery. We donât know if she was killed here or not. We canât have the scene compromised Storm will kill us. You know how this got out of hand the last time.â
âIâll make the call and see what to do with the girlâs body,â Walker offered.
Wallace caught up to Justus.
âTheyâre sending other deputies to help out, right?â Justus asked.
âYeah,â Wallace said. âMan powerâs short though. State police is coming. We need help roping off this whole place. Good thing is, the congregation isnât that large. Hope we can keep âem outta here.â
âMacy and me will stay for as long as we can to give ya a hand.â He paused. âDo you think the FBI is gonna come?â
âI hope not. You know how Storm feels about that. The State Police is, as he would say, hindrance enough where getting his work done is concerned.â
As Justus and Wallace walked neared the victim, Robertson County Sheriffâs Detective Alan Keith arrived on scene. He called out as he strode after them, his cowboy boots striking the ground hard, making small dents in the dew-moistened grass and dirt as he hurried.
In his early forties, Detective Alan Keith was a remarkable-looking individual. At six-foot-six, medium build and a hardy cowboy through and through, not only was he Texas big, his heart was just as huge. A daunting appearance was where it ended for the most part especially after he bared a smile which softened his ruggedly handsome face and exposed his sympathetic nature. His best friend, Robertson County Sheriff Dorian Storm, teased that Keithâs compassion often ruled his head and he shouldâve been a kindergarten teacher or a veterinarian, not a cop.
âWallace, hold up!â
âHey, Alan,â Wallace reached out his hand as Keith caught up to them.
âHey,â Keith shook his hand. âWhat-a yâall got here?â
âDead little girl,â Wallace said. âHope Roseland. Been missinâ since Thursday morning.â
âAw hell. Poor kid. Who knows the hell she went through,â Keith said. âI prayed weâd find her alive.â
âYeah,â Wallace said. âThe whole thingâs shitty.â
They stopped next to Hopeâs body to assess the scene. Justus bent over the girl, checking for a pulse or any signs of life. And, as he was told, her spirit left hours before.
âDetective!â Ramiro called out to Detective Keith as he hurried toward him.
âYes, sir?â
Miller came up behind him. âThis is Ramiro, Detective. He found her body.â
âRamiro and I have met before. Iâm sorry aboutâŚâ he was cut off.
âDetective, look,â Ramiro pointed to the tombstone. âI just realized now. See?â
All eyes turned to the headstone on the grave.
âOh, shit,â Wallace whispered.
Detective Keith read the engraving aloud. âKarla Roseland. Loving wife and mother. June 12th, 1978 to June 5th, 2008.â
âJesus! Itâs Hopeâs momma,â Ramiro confirmed. âShe was left on her own mommaâs grave. Who keeps doing this?â He shuttered and shook a moment then broke down with a sob and took off toward his truck. âOh, God. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Jesus, MaryâŚâ could be heard slowly fading away as he got farther from the scene.
âFuckinâ people, man,â Detective Keith grumbled. He bent down and fingered Hopeâs dress, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle. âFuckersâll do anything anymore. Kill anyone anymore.â
~ Copyright 2013 Wanda S. Paryla
**
Here’s the link straight to Chapter Two:
For any interested parties, here’s a sneak peek to the tentatively titled Angel Maker, the first book in The Sheriffs of Robertson County series. This prologue is done, but still needs a bit more editing.
A police procedural mystery/suspense drama (wish me luck!),The Sheriffs of Robertson County is a romantically titled, but crime-themed, series of books where the stories occur in sparsely populated, rural Robertson County, Texas; the county where I spent my childhood and the last place I’d expect major crimes to occur. Currently, there are two books in the works for this series. Hopefully, County Sheriff Dorian Storm and his associate, Detective Alan Keith, will arrive at squad room near you by early 2014 at the latest. đ
***
ANGEL MAKER (THE SHERIFFS OF ROBERTSON COUNTY)
PROLOGUE
Â
August 1977 – Robertson County, Texas
Â
Eleven-year old Dorian tired of staring at the condensation dripping down his half-filled glass of tea. It was iced tea until a few minutes ago when the ice totally succumbed to the Texas heat. He looked at his father who was engrossed in the local newspaper. Dorian rubbed his fingers around the glass, smearing the dripping water all over the glass. He wiped his hands on his pants and looked out over the backyard. The grass was burnt brown from the sun, dried up and crunchy. Bare patches lay strewn about and red clay and sand dotted the yard.
âWhat are you reading about, Dad?â Dorian sighed.
Maurice grunted. âHmm, nothing that would interest you, son.â
âCan we get a swimming pool?â
âNo, sir,â Maurice responded adamantly. âNo pools.â
The pair fell silent again and Dorianâs attention flittered to his parentsâ bedroom window; his feet gingerly followed his interest. He stood there for a moment just staring through the glass.
âDad, why do they call that guy Angel Killer?â Dorian asked. âThe Angel Killer,â he whispered as he watched his mother move about her bedroom.
Maurice put down the newspaper article he was reading on the stock market. First he looked up at the sky, then to a nearby tree where a squirrel was ascending the trunk with a pecan in its mouth. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, meditating on an answer as birds chirped and dry leaves of nearby trees crackled.
âDad?â Dorian asked again, not looking toward his father.
Mauriceâs gaze landed on his son who still stood at the window looking in at his mother who sat at her dressing table fixing her hair. She spotted Dorian and smiled and waved at him then returned her gaze to her reflection.
Dorian was incredibly intelligent for a boy his age. School authorities tried to pass him on to higher grades to match his learning abilities. They tried to bump him from the second to the third grade, then again from the fifth to the sixth, but his mother wouldnât have it either time. No matter how hard his father pushed for it. She said she didnât want him to be an oddball; however, he already was.
âWell, son,â Maurice hesitated, searching for the right words. Dorian was just a kid, yes, but he was no fool. âI guess, because he nails angel wings to the backs of all those poor women he kills.â
âWhy does he do that? Kill people and do that?â
âI donât know. I canâtâŚâ Maurice shook his head. âThe manâs a devil, Dorian. Evil. Crazy maybe. I donât know why he does what he does. Maybe he doesnât know either.â
Dorianâs curiosity often tested his parentsâ and teachersâ tolerance, got him in trouble with his friends and siblings, and often disgruntled the neighbors while he investigated all the neighborhood woes and looked for the lost kitties and doggies of pretty girls.
Dorian still gazed at his mother through the window.
âI wonder why he does it. I wonder if the police know why.â
âI doubt they know yet. We shouldnât talk about this anymore. It gives the monster power.â
âPower?â Dorian said.
âI think itâs nearing lunch time. Letâs go in.â
âIâm not hungry.â
âI am. And your mommaâs made egg salad. And guess what? Sheâs got us some potato chips, son. Isnât that something? I knew sheâd break down eventually andâŚâ He stopped when Dorianâs eyes met his, squinting as he saw straight through his fatherâs facade.
âYouâre glad weâre black, arenât you?â Dorian probed.
âWhat? Why would you say that, boy?â
âBecause, the Angel Killer only kills pretty white girls, not pretty black girls. I think Mommaâs cousin, Harmony, would be his type otherwise. Maybe even Momma. Only that theyâre black is what might be keepinâ them alive.â
âDorian,â Maurice struggled to control his temper but his shock was something he could not conceal. âDonât talk like that! Jesus.â
Dorian looked back in at his mother, studying her.
âJesus doesnât have anything to do with it. Look at her, Dad. How pretty. On the short side. Momma canât weigh no more than a hundred-and-twenty-pounds. Big smile. And her eyes are wide and round andâŚwell, never mind,â Dorian shrugged. âSheâs a bit too old I guess. Thankfully. But Harmony, sheâs just like those white girls, except sheâsâŚâ
âDorian!â Maurice leaned forward in his chair. âStop that! What have your mother and I told you about taking interest in those things?â He bolted up out of his seat. The iron chair grating across the cement patio startled Dorian and he shuttered. âDonât ever talk like that again. Do you want to curse us?â
âThose women werenât cursed, Dad.â Dorian said. âThey were murdered. Theyâre victims.â
âVictims? Stop it, Dorian.â Maurice strode into the house, huffing like a freight train. âAlice? Alice! We have got to do something about Dorian.â
Dorian took one last look through the window but his mother had left her place in front of her mirror. The room was empty. He walked to the iron patio table and looked at the front of the newspaper.
âAlice, really. Dorian has got to keep his nose out of the adultsâ business,â Maurice demanded. âAnd we shouldnât let him read newspapers and magazines any longer. No more Time and no more newspapers.â
âOh, Maurice,â Alice said. âHeâs just a curious boy. And too smart for his own good.â
âWhat? Yâall are driving me crazy. Heâs out there with his curiosity all over the monster that killed those women, Alice,â Maurice shook his head, waving his hands, hunting for his thoughts. âOh, shit it doesnât matter. Iâm just afraid of what these interests are saying about him, baby.â
âThey say heâs a child with a conscience, Maurice.â
âA conscience? Are you sure? Because his curiosity about crime disturbs me a little.â
Dorian read the article aloud to himself, just loud enough to drown out the voices of his parents who did not seem to care that he might be within earshot. His father, always judgmental; his mother, always pleading and defending him.
âWaco Woman Found Slain. Last night near sundown, twenty-eight year old Mrs. Dana Caldwell of Waco was found by farmer, Gill Cooper, lying in his hay field in Robertson County. Mrs. Caldwell had been missing for three days and surfaced on Sunday. Like the six previous victims who were murdered before her in a similar fashion, Mrs. Caldwell had been stripped of her clothing and redressed in what looked to be an angel costume. Pale makeup had been applied to her face which offered a porcelain doll-like appearance, and her cheeks and lips were colored baby-doll pink. Her cheeks were sprinkled lightly with glitter as was her chest. Her assailantâŚâ Dorian choked back his distaste, âHer assailant nailed angel wings to her back at both scapulas. As with other similar cases, the victimâs hands were folded together and held a rosary.
Authorities believe the victim was already dead before the attacker redressed and spiked the wings to her back. The Robertson County Medical Examiner said the cause of death is not apparent at this time and is unsure of any sexual assault; however, it is common knowledge that the other women found in the exact same fashion were not sexually assaulted, and it was ruled their deaths were due to asphyxiation. Some of the women were killed by strangulation and others by suffocation.
Dana Caldwell was a Graduate student at Baylor University and just celebrated her three-year anniversary in May with her husband, Carl, who she leaves behind along with her twelve-year old daughter from a previous relationship.
There are a few differences between Dana Caldwell and the previous victims, however. Caldwell was on the tall side, and blue-eyed. Based on previous reports, the other victims were all brown-eyed and shorter than Dana. And according to her husband, she was about thirteen weeks pregnant. The pregnancy has not yet been verified by the medical examiner.â
Dorian looked to the black and white photo of Dana Caldwell then dropped the paper to the table. He wondered how this type of crime found its way into his city-less county.
His mother, Alice, called to him. âDorian, lunch!â
âThe Angel Killer. Why do you get glory while everyone you touch suffers?â Dorian snorted and squinted in judgment. âYou donât kill angels, you make them. Angel Maker.â
~Copyright 2013 Wanda S. Paryla
Click here to read Chapter One next!… https://wandasparyla.com/2013/09/12/sneak-peek-chapter-one-the-sheriffs-of-robertson-county-angel-maker/
Exploring the World of Fiction
Studying the Short Story
Finding Hope Through Hardship
âAll you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.â