The Virgin Killer

By George Edward Moon

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2012 George Edward Moon
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4669-1901-3

Chapter One

The message light, on the telephone near the bed, continued to blink. It had been doing so all night. Looking through the bedroom window, the hotel neon sign is reflected off the darkened glass of the building across the street. It was that time in the morning when the city was silent. That hollow quietness deceiving you into thinking all is right with the world. An isolated bus pulled to a stop on the street below. The driver was the only creature aboard. His stop is required by schedule and part of the automatic routine. The hush was broken by the sound of the motor as it revved away from the curb. Soon the serene softness will be disturbed by sounds of activity as the city awakens—more vehicles on the streets, people going to work, shouts of greeting from the neighborhood, and soon the blood curdling scream of the housekeeper after letting herself in the room and finding its occupant naked, bloodied and dead.

Police officer Boris Greske answered the call from dispatch and he and his partner, Tommy Arthur were first on the scene. The housekeeper was still in hysterics. Her English wasn't good before, and now, being overly excited and hysterical to boot, made Greske's head ache even worse. Greske and Arthur had been drinking most of the day prior to their evening shift. When it came to the bottle, there weren't many who could keep up with these two experienced pros. Over the years, they had built up a tolerance to the effect of the devils brew, or they thought they had. To the outside observer, both men appeared to talk and walk in slow motion. However, to each other, they believed they were as quick as a click. This morning, after a night of little to no action, the city's nest were pissed off for having to work close to their normal quitting time.

Best of friends since joining the force, Boris and Tommy bowled on the same team in a Wednesday night league and played poker every Friday in a traveling game at each other's house. The revolving game consisted of six steady players. Besides Boris and Tommy, there were four other regulars: Melvin Lee, the sales manager of the Buick dealership, Donald J. Bennett, veterinarian, Michael 'Mickey' Hanrahan, owner of Mickey's Restaurant and Hamilton Barfield III of Barfield's Insurance Agency.

They all looked forward to the Friday game. Cold beer and sandwiches made up the food and beverage most evenings. Usually, the menu was supplemented with chips and pretzels brought in by the other players. The game was five and seven card stud or five card draw poker. Wild cards were mentioned only after enough booze had been consumed. These men were purists and would never play any crazy game. That is, until they drank enough to forget who they claimed to be.

"I wish the Chief Deputy would hurry up and get his butt over here," Boris whispered to Tommy. "People are going to begin to get nosey and before long we'll have a crowd on our hands and be here forever."

"They said he'll be here right away. We can't do much until he shows up. Did you see the corpse?" Tommy asked.

"Yeah, she's got a nice ass but there was just too much blood for me to get a good look," Boris replied.

"How old do you think she was?"

"I don't know, maybe twenty or so."

While the two officers were talking, a man walked across the street and turned to go into the hotel. He was obviously the daytime relief for the night desk clerk.

"No you don't," Tommy said as he held out his arm to prevent him entering. "Nobody goes inside until the Lieutenant gets here. He'll be asking questions so just wait a couple minutes."

"What's the problem? Has somebody been hurt?" The desk clerk questioned.

"Looks like we got a homicide here and I can't tell you more than that."

"Has the night clerk been killed?"

"No, now no more questions," Tommy said gruffly.

"That's a relief, I'm the day clerk and sure as hell don't want to get shot."

Tommy thought to himself, what a pathetic bastard. Nobody's been shot. The upstairs girl got her throat cut.

Boris and Tommy had enough seniority to be on the day shift. The past two weeks was a favor to another cop who needed to be with his wife during her remaining days in hospice. Their response to other officers in need was another reason for their popularity within the force. No one had a word of derision to be said about them. And, to top it off, they actually did care about a fellow policeman, ready to help when needed, even to the point of bearing false witness if the situation required it. Like many policemen, the home life received marginal attention. Active duty on the streets built unimaginable nervous tension. The newspapers reported daily about a patrolman being shot and killed. In some neighborhoods, young people lacked respect for any who represented law and order. While wives made home life as comfortable as possible, the day of stress and strain sometimes took more to dissipate. For the two men standing guard at this morning's murder scene, alcohol worked best of all. Ironically, less was consumed at home until playing cards or when bowling in their league. Both had children and a proper image ruled the day except on poker nights. It was reluctantly agreed that one day out of the week shouldn't give that bad of an impression.

Tommy and Boris communicated with each other using their cell phones. It worked well for them whenever one or the other operated out of sight. Today served as a perfect example. Boris was guarding the crime scene and Tommy stood outside for crowd control and awaiting Chief Deputy Mackey.

Several vehicles approached the hotel with their sirens wailing. Chief Deputy Mackey pulled up and parked in the street. He was followed by an ambulance with three paramedics inside. Next in line were three more black and whites. Soon a full contingency of law men occupied the street and walled off the area. By now the local TV station had set up and began broadcasting.

"Where's Greske?" Mackey asked as he approached Tommy.

"He's upstairs guarding the crime scene," Tommy replied as the paramedics hurried past. Observers took note that they were carrying a stretcher. Tommy noticed that Mackey had company. One of the division's detectives also climbed the steps and entered with him. He had seen him before but was never introduced.

Chief Deputy Mackey acknowledged officer Greske and introduced Detective Wilson before entering the room.

"Has anything been touched?" asked Wilson.

"No sir and I've been guarding here since we first arrived," Boris stated.

"We?" questioned the detective.

"Officer Arthur and me," said Boris.

"They are partners on the evening shift for the area," Mackey explained further.

"Once things are cleared up here you both will need to fill out complete reports of your activities and what brought you here this morning," Detective Wilson said formally.

"Yes sir," Boris replied, thinking how pissed Tommy's going to get when he finds out.

"Are you smiling officer Greske?" asked Wilson.

"No sir, I just got a gas pain in the gut," Boris lied.

"You and Arthur are finished here. You can go directly to the station and tend to the paperwork. I understand you both are off until Monday at which time you return to your daytime routine," Chief Deputy Mackey said. Obviously he was emphasizing that fact for Wilson's benefit.

"Yes sir," Boris replied.

The station house was especially active for this early in the morning. Not as much as it will be tonight. Being Friday, the place will be crammed with disorderly conductors, drunks and women of the night. Most of which are known on a first name basis by whomever is working the shift. Normally, there just aren't many surprises. Today, however, there's been a murder. Most killings are gang related and committed during a rumble or drive by. Murder one only happens two or three time a year. Boris and Tommy have the spotlight and, for their fifteen minutes of fame, strut around the front office like blue toed boobies.

It took two hours to complete the paperwork and relay everything Boris and Tommy knew about the murder. Those bound to the office were always hungry for news from the street. Especially, in this incident, since it referred to murder one. Curiosity ran high and the patrolmen couldn't offer enough to whet even the tiniest appetite. Boris was the only one to observe the body and communicated the point of her being naked. That fact seemed to draw a crowd but, with not much more to tell, most went back to their desks and resumed their work.

"Looks like we play cards tonight," Boris said.

"Yeah, the guys might have heard something about the incident," Tommy remarked.

There are times when the word on the street contained valuable information about crimes. For one reason or another pigeons occasionally hear both rumor and fact. Only certain police officers can open a dialogue. The remainder will get nothing. Tommy and Boris, having proven themselves straight shooters, were sometimes able to solicit good info.

Chapter Two

No summer passed by without a half dozen outdoor barbeques in which their wives and kids took part. The wives brought covered dishes and children came prepared to play softball. The family softball game was traditional, as was the guys later on, accumulating by themselves to drink beer, eat hardboiled eggs, tell dirty jokes and fart like mountain gorillas. Whenever it came to a contest, Hamilton Barfield was the undisputed champion.

Tonight however, was poker Friday. The full complement for the table was in attendance. Boris and Joyce had remodeled the basement into a family room. They went all out with a bar at one end and wide screen TV on the wall opposite the couch and three recliners. Their laundry room included a toilet and shower. All was thoughtfully hidden in a room by itself. Boris had proven himself quite a carpenter not to mention the plumbing. The circular table Joyce had purchase was perfect for six playing cards, although that wasn't on her mind when she bought it. She considered it mainly for parties of a different nature. It wasn't that she didn't like playing a little poker, but games more along the lines of Canasta, Pinochle and Bridge were her original intent. She also understood the need Boris had due to his line of work. He needed to unwind. The weekly card game brought together men from other occupations, opinions and prospects. Her motives weren't altogether altruistic either, because, she really liked their wives, making the card game symbiotic, to some extent. The wives also got together often. Most times during the day while kids were in school and the guys at work. Tommy's wife Donna was the only one married to a policeman. She and Joyce turned out to be best of friends.

First to arrive, as always, was Mickey Hanrahan. Boris answered the door bell. Mickey stood before him holding two large brown sacks. They were still warm from their contents and began to reveal grease stains.

"Hey, man, you didn't need to bring anything. Joyce is going to make us some cold cut sandwiches," Boris declared.

"Not tonight old man, wait until you get a whiff of what I'm bringing. Rita and I fixed hot Italian beef sandwiches. We ran a special this evening and prepared too many. That is, I prepared too many," Mickey said while winking.

"I gotta admit, they sure smell good," said Boris as the two men walked into the kitchen.

"Look what Mickey brought. No cold cuts tonight," Boris stated as Joyce took possession of the aromatic sacks.

"Rita told me she was closing the restaurant this evening but there wasn't any mention of Italian beef sandwiches," Joyce declared.

"She didn't know about it until later," replied Mickey on his way down the steps to the family room.

The two men grabbed a couple beers from the downstairs fridge and made themselves comfortable in front of the ball game. The White Sox were playing the Yankees and it looked as though they might pull off a rare win against the Bronx Bombers. Mickey had been a Cub fan since childhood when his family lived on Chicago's north side. After moving to Park Forest he found himself in the midst of five Sox fans every Friday night. Their friendship out grew most of the banter about favorite ball clubs, and, away from the poker table, each defended the other no matter which team was being discussed.

"You hear anything about the murder?" asked Boris in hopes there was productive scuttlebutt at the restaurant bar.

"The only thing I heard was the gal was a stripper at the Vagabond Club. Some of the late night customers had seen her there. Are you and Tommy on the case?"

"Nope, patrolmen don't get involved in cases like this. There's a detective in the bureau who will probably take over. A new guy named Greg Wilson. Ever hear of him?"

"Can't say that I have," Mickey replied

The noise upstairs could only mean one thing. The rest of the gang has arrived. Someone shouted, "Italian beef sandwiches, Mickey, if you weren't so ugly I'd kiss ya."

"If you weren't so ugly, I'd let ya," Mickey retorted to a round of good natured laughter.

Before the first hand is dealt, Ham Bar field usually opens the festivities with an off color anecdote. He came prepared tonight and began with,

"A man walks into a bar with a box under his arm. The bartender asks,

"What's in the box?"

And the guy says, "It's a South American blow job toad."

The man sitting next to him says, "You got to be kidding."

"No, true story, take it into the john and try it out."

So the man takes it with him to the can. When he gets back he asks, "How much do you want for it?"

The guy says, "$500".

"Sold", says the man. And he pays the guy and hurries home.

When he walks into the house his wife asks, "What's in the box?"

And he says, "It's a South American blow job toad and, if you can teach it to cook, you can pack your bags and haul your ass out of here."

From the sound of things in the family room Joyce thought she better wait awhile before she brought down the food. She'll wait at least until the laughter dies down a bit.

Donny Bennett tried his luck with, "Did you hear about the dog that walked into the bar and said, "Give me a scotch and toilet water."

There wasn't much reaction. Probably due to the fact that Donny was the only one who owned a dog. Donny's wife, Marlene is deceased. She succumbed to cervical cancer seven years ago leaving him with a five-year-old daughter. Donny's daughter Karen, now twelve, was the one wanting a dog. She picked out a pit bull from a friend's litter and named him Mr. T. He grew to over 90 pounds and developed a fearful appearance. Beyond his ferocious looks the dog was the most docile animal on the block and dearly loved Karen. Mr. T never missed an opportunity to steal into her bedroom if she forgot to shut the door. Karen had satin sheets on her bed. When she returned to her room she found him in the bed, laying on his back, and spread eagle with a delirious look of contentment. Mr. T is a living testimonial that all pit bulls aren't vicious killers. With that said, heaven help anyone who ever abused Karen or Donny for that matter.

Melvin began shuffling the deck and asked, "What's it going to be boys, five or seven card stud?"

Chapter Three

Tony Esposito lay on his back blowing cigarette smoke in the air. The room was dark. Sunlight was disallowed by the window shade being pulled down as far as it can go. Tony didn't sleep last night. He just lay there thinking of troubles yet to come. A frequent customer of the Vagabond Lounge, it was Tony who took Wanda Watson home the night before. He gave her $50 dollars, had sex and left. He didn't kill her. All the good that will do him once he's picked up. Tony has a rap sheet filled with only misdemeanors but nobody's going to believe him. It's only a matter of time. He decides to stay put until the police show up. Trying to escape or run now will just make matters worse. Tony isn't worried about calling in sick since he hadn't had a full time job in years. He got by running errands for those having interest in the Vagabond. He never looked in any package. He knew they had to contain either drugs or cash for the 'Big Boys' to pay him so much. He also knew if they suspected him of disloyalty he would end up in Lake Michigan wearing concrete overshoes.

Every little noise Tony heard made his heart race to the point his whole body shook. Eventually, there came a knock on the door and a voice saying, "Open up Tony, it's the police." A sorry individual wearing handcuffs and trembling like a frightened rabbit was led to the squad car and motored away to the village lock up.

Park Forrest is located on the southern end of Illinois' Second Congressional District which includes parts of Cook and Will County and also, the south suburbs of Chicago. At one time the south east side was home to Eastern Europeans and Irish immigrants. Jobs were plentiful at steel mills along Lake Michigan and the railroad companies in the area. As time passed, the steel mills closed and rail service declined. And, as home owners left the area in search of work, the African American community gradually migrated southward from other parts of the city. Over time, the black population increased to nearly 70 percent.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Virgin Killerby George Edward Moon Copyright © 2012 by George Edward Moon. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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