No Place for the Wicked

No Place for the Wicked

By

Rodd Clark

Author of ‘The Brantley Colton Mysteries’ Short Ride to Hell & A Cache of Killers

Copyright © 2014 Rodd Clark. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. As a work of fiction names, characters, businesses, places, products, events and incidents are either a creation of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious or solicitous manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Acknowledgment – My book, my rules - but I couldn’t have done this without help and so I dedicate this to my mother, and of course to Richard, for his own brand of wicked ways.

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"…an expertise in sadomasochism is a valuable life-skill. "

Senator Alger M. Gellis, a.k.a. – Dutch

Chapter One

They were swarming like flies to a dead thing, circling and buzzing with frenzied flurry of activity. The excitement and blur of activity seemed out of place next to the body, which rested immobile like a fallen statue in the tall saw grass. The body was naked, blue from the absence of oxygen in the blood, and the face was thrust upward as if in deviance to God. The figure had once been a living breathing man, but now, his mouth was slightly agape and the eyes were cataracts of white, lifeless orbs.

The corpse had been unearthed in grim fashion when a group of runners came around the footpath. The men and women jogged together every other morning. They were a community of quick-footed enthusiasts, and although they met twice a week and occasionally one day out of the weekend, they didn’t know each other well enough to consider themselves friends. They chatted between the inhalations and heavy breathing, engaging in that idle conversation of runners who were just enjoying their freedom. As the collection bounded around the corner, a young woman had to pause to tie one of the laces of her running shoes. She veered off the path, cautious of those oblivious joggers who might be too involved in conversation to notice her as they came around the bend.

There, beside a patch of tall weeds, she bent over to adjust her laces and noticed something farther ahead stuffed in the bushy foliage just a couple of yards from the edge of the path. At first she thought someone had dumped a mannequin in the weeds, but her breathing froze when she realized the mannequin had male privates—this was no store front figure positioned to sell clothes.

Gasping, her hand instinctively ran to her open mouth, and as women occasionally do, she took a second before she started her ear-shattering scream. A police car was quickly dispatched. It pulled up to find a group of five individuals of varying size wearing running clothing, standing in a circle and blocking the path. Each member of the troupe seemed nervous and out-of-sorts. Two were on cell phones, presumably breaking the news even before detectives could be called to the scene.

The officers’ job was simple, secure the location. They pulled orange traffic cones and police tape from their vehicles and began a perimeter restriction. Clearly it was homicide, the body of a male in his mid-to-late thirties lay half buried by the dry overgrowth. The female jogger said she might not have even noticed the body had the wind not blown the grass in the instant she’d stopped to tie her shoes. The homicide wasn’t defined by the body, but the nudity was strong indication. Who runs naked in a public park and then falls over dead from natural causes?

Within twenty minutes detectives Ryan and Yarbrough had arrived from homicide and the flurry of motion began fresh. Names of witnesses were recorded on tiny pads for later reporting, and a survey of the scene began in earnest. Looking down at the body, Ryan was taken with the tiny insects crawling over cold flesh. The body hadn’t been there long or the creepy crawlies which feast and scavenge off such things would have been worse. Still, it was always off-putting to see a naked body with insects lively dancing around that poor soul’s open mouth and eyes. It sent shivers down Detective Ryan’s back, because even a seasoned detective has some humanity.

The Coroner’s office had yet to arrive and Ryan could see their determination of COD would be intricate because there were no obvious tale-tell signs of trauma to the trained eye. But he was unable to move the body from its resting spot until the photographer had done his work. By the time the CSU units and photographic technicians had done their jobs, Yarbrough and Ryan were able to turn the body over for a full view, and it was there they first saw the gunshot hole on the victim’s side, just about where the liver sat.

There were no blood stains, fresh or otherwise, which indicated the man had probably been murdered elsewhere, quite possible cleaned of blood, DNA and forensic evidence before being dumped in such a well-traveled spot as a jogging path in the quaint, tiny town of Rockland. For his part Ryan had investigated only nine murders in his career, but since relocating to that backwater city in Maine, which had a population of less than nine thousand, this was only his second homicide.

Yarbrough had only recently transferred into major case. Coming from uniform patrol he made detective early in his career. He was bright and enthusiastic, the jade of cynicism having not even become the slightest of embers. Recently married, Detective Axle Yarbrough had made the move to the detective squad solely for the bump in salary. His call to homicide had not been his decision, though; he’d been tasked by superiors, whose agenda had been more political than necessity.

The newbie detective willingly accepted the transfer into homicide because Rockland had nothing else to offer. A small town can’t usually maintain divisions such as Narcotics, or Cyber Crime, and burglary and robbery divisions were handled by black and white officers working additional duties whenever required. Rockland Maine had little to offer in the way of exciting or lucrative investigational units. Murders were rare, and most crimes fell under the jurisdictions of the State Police. For Axle this was new ground and he felt that surge of excitement in investigating his first homicide.

His latex hand may have been the one which turned the body over, but it was Ryan who first glimpsed the bullet hole. An infinitesimal puncture, one he might’ve missed altogether, his inexperience showing at every turn. Ryan had the proficiency with dead bodies, and Axle was bright enough to rely heavily on his partner’s training and background.

The victim was as young as Ryan’s fledgling partner. His half lids barely exposed the white film obscuring his pupils and masking the color of his eyes. His physique was strong and muscular. He was in fine shape for a man lying nude and dead in the weeds, thought Axle. Ryan looked for other signs of trauma, the typical bruising around the wrists and neck to indicate restraints, as well as the defensive marks which one usually finds on murder victims. There was a faint blue line, scarcely noticeable, which circled both wrists, but the black and blue spots he could see, could have come from the scars of day to day bumps and accidents. It would be easier once the medical examiner was able to get his scalpel inside.

The uniform officers had already scanned the area, but both Ryan and Yarbrough took the necessary minutes to review every blade of grass and lift every fallen leaf. Neither man expected to find much. It was clear they were standing at a body dump and there would be no tire tracks or evidence carelessly discarded in the dense, dry grass. The body had been carried there and simply tossed like bags of overstuffed garbage, the only memorial being the miniature blue blooms from wildflowers which were growing indiscriminately among the weeds.

The crowds of suits, uniforms, and dark blue CSU coveralls worn by each man and woman at the scene, all weaved through the pristine location, bent and focused at the task at hand. Rockland police and detectives had little experience in safeguarding such a traveled and fashionable spot as the running path in the popular Harbor Park. It overlooked a multitude of boats resting atop the water with the famous Owls Head Lighthouse visible from every angle. It was overrun by lush and beautiful spring foliage and an ideal spot for joggers, but it was too well-traveled by tourists, some visiting the Lord Camden Inn, or boat owners heading to one of the many bow riders, trawlers or sport fishing boats which dotted the bay.

It would be a vain attempt to stop the many cars from heading down to the cove, or to the restaurant at the Inn, so officers did what they could by standing as a blockade between the scene and the roadway. It did little to prevent passersby from seeing the CSU van and black and whites parked there. It was clear the gossip would run like roaches until every boat or patron at every local business was chatting up others with the news of a murder in the tiny town of Rockland.

Murder was big news for a people used to spending hours discussing every aspect of the strong easterly winds of the ocean and nothing more. Gawking faces behind passenger side windows passed the bustle of cop cars and uniformed officers, and their expressions seemed to say it all. None of the locals ever assumed the body would belong to one of their own, blaming every catastrophe on the tourists who filled their shops and bars as the harbingers for every sin committed there.

"Did you hear? They found a dead leafer in the bramble by the harbor." They would say the second they entered the local store or slipped atop a barstool.

‘Leafers’ were the names they gave the tourists who traveled up north to observe the changing colors of the regional trees. Even in the springtime the name had stuck as a sign of derision, and although the name of the victim would not be released for days, it was a common understanding it was an out-of-towner, because there was never a motive for murder by the natural born denizens of Rockland.

Having come from Portland, Oregon, James Ryan wasn’t yet used to the chill of Maine. Even in the springtime the breeze seemed to knife into his insides whenever he found himself close to water. He may not have accepted the position in the Rockland PD, which as it worked was a decrease in his salary, had he not found himself just escaping a divorce and desiring a fresh start in another faraway state. His ex-wife Jeannie had finally grown tired of the long empty nights alone, and taking a backseat to a demanding job as lead detective in the PPD. He couldn’t blame her, but even in the face of the legal wrangling and bittersweet endings, the only thing he could think of was getting somewhere different and beginning anew.

When the position first came into his sightline, he jumped at the chance to remove old ghosts by selling all his belongings, the ones Jeannie hadn’t confiscated after their separation, and buying a new car worthy of a drive cross country. He had shipped everything he couldn’t carry in his new gunmetal gray Acura TL to the Rockland PD, which had found him temporary housing until he could land his own place. Officers had willingly unloaded the crates and boxes and stacked them inside a chain link secured parking lot just behind the station, eagerly awaiting their new detective to arrive from the big city.

In a week’s time Ryan had found a bachelor pad with a long-term rental contract and had all the boxes transported to his new place, where they would sit unpacked and drawing dust for months to follow. Armed with his outdated suit and his personal, licensed sidearm, he walked into the station and immediately began his new life with a fixed tenacity for success. He was barely acclimated when the first of his investigations began, a homicide with a likely suspect. It had been a drunken brawl gone south and didn’t take long before the brother of the victim was sitting in an interrogation room and bawling over his confessional, blaming the abuse of beer on his accidental killing. Same shit, different city, thought Ryan.

It would be a few weeks later that a body would be discovered at Harbor Park. The time between homicides was spent rummaging over the few cold case files, each banker’s box layered in dirt and cobwebs from the county storage unit. He had been assigned a training partner, and he immediately took a shine to the younger man so keen to please him. His first act of mentoring had been to send Detective Yarbrough to the city’s only Starbucks for his double shot Expresso Macchiato.

He admired Axle’s bright intellect. It was a source of amazement to him to find someone so well-read in a town of what he considered to be backwater bumpkins. Axle’s interest in police procedure was refreshing after Portland, where shabby detectives worked minimal hours and closed few case files tossed carelessly their way. The atmosphere had been another driving factor in accepting the commander’s offer. All that was left was to review and sign his contract before forwarding it back via certified mail and beginning that arduous task of moving from one coast to the other.

What you think, Yarbrough? he asked. What does the body tell you? He was always trying to point out the obvious, taking his job of training with a serious eye. Does it tell you anything other than this strapping young man shouldn’t be dead?

Axle circled the body and squinted in concentration, hoping he’d have the answers Ryan was seeking. No blood, he said confidently. I’d guess the body was moved here after he was killed. Being nude suggests maybe a sexual motive…then again the killer may have just been removing any trace of his own DNA.

Good man… Ryan said. What do you make of his defensive wounds?

The younger man seemed to blank with the question and even Ryan could see he feared he’d missed something which had been painfully apparent to the more seasoned detective. There was a beat of silence as he considered everything he saw, and then he finally offered, I suppose I’m missing something, but I don’t see defensive wounds.

Right again…which tells you what?

Maybe surprise, he was shot, there was clearly a distance…I’m not sure I know what you’re asking. He felt defeated by the rapid gunfire of queries and hung his head.

"It means it happened quickly, there wasn’t a struggle, no one came up from behind and subdued him, whether they removed his clothing or not there would be signs of that struggle on his body, suggesting…it was someone he knew, or less likely, an act of random violence. Either way the question about his lack of clothing comes back into play."

Nodding, the younger man began to see the lighted path ahead in their investigation.

So what we need to do, after identifying the body, is to question his acquaintances and build a picture of the victim and his last days.

And you thought you weren’t cut for the job? Ryan said, smiling. It was clear even without any experience the rookie would easily find the homicide division had always been his natural calling, even though the Rockland homicide division currently consisted of the two sole agents standing in the underbrush over a naked corpse.

Chapter Two

It had been over a year since Brantley Colton had put Portland Oregon in his rearview and hit the open road. He took two weeks on a rambling course from the Northwest to reach the Atlantic. It was as far from where he’d been and in a trek headed to nowhere in particular. His Mercury had blown a tie rod just outside of Rockland Maine. Originally he’d reasoned he would hit the Atlantic coast and then decide his next route from there. It had been a very ambling and uncertain path across country. The knocking on his left tire put a hitch in that plan and required him to stop long enough to service his car with new tie rods and an overhaul to the engine. It didn’t bother him to take a break, his time ran with an abundance of idle, and his car had done more than he could’ve ever asked of her by traipsing twice across country in less than four years’ time.

It was time for an extended disruption to his travels. The hours behind the wheel and the days of cheap motels and fast foods had taken their toll. He fondly remembered his last sumptuous stay at a fine hotel, and that had been as far back as Portland. He still remembered the starch white sheets and plush towels of the Waterfront Hotel, making every other stop seem a tiny piece of hell by comparison.

It was time to stretch his toes in the proverbial sand and seek a more traditional lodging. He decided Maine was as far away from anything he was accustomed too, and far from any police or FBI who might still wish to spend time chatting long and hard with Brantley Colton about murders in Florida and Portland, questioning what he might be able to tell them about them, and wondering what he knew. He was approved for a loaner car during the Mercury’s revitalization and he used the time to scour the city searching for digs he could rent with little paperwork and even fewer questions. He found nothing acceptable in the city limits, so he widened his circle and began long drives through the open countryside, looking for vacation cabin rentals hidden in the stone-laden hills of Rockland’s outer limits.

The leaves were budding green and the underbrush was just gaining a foothold in the spacious fields along his route. He would have liked to have been here during the fall, he thought. The changing leaves and the majestic sight of Pines and Cyprus trees standing tall on craggy overlooks, the beautiful Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop…it would have been worth the time and the drive, he figured. It couldn’t have been any more rural a setting than if he’d imagined one up in his mind. He had turned his loaner onto Atlantic Street, and then headed up the road in the direction of Clam Cove. An older gentleman in what passed as a gas station had kindly offered the suggestion, saying he might find a couple rentals that way, since the cove was long considered a vacation spot for New Yorkers looking for the space to stretch their arms.

He passed tiny white cottages and an abandoned grain silo on the cracked asphalt where potholes seemed to be multiplying before his very eyes. He wondered just how long one had to live here before a pistol in the mouth became the only acceptable solution. What in God’s name does one do here for fun? He asked himself. It seemed unless your cup of tea was watching the waves roll in or the paint to dry on your front porch, you were shit outta luck in getting into any fun, or any trouble for that matter.

Colton considered his self a reasonably sophisticated gay man and few years still under forty. His first, natural inclination was to any nightlife that Rockland had to offer. It seemed his best bet for meeting anyone in his circle or age-bracket would only occur after he passed the ‘Thanks for Visiting’ sign at the edge of city and just keep driving south.

Still, the homespun feel and that sense of hanging on the threshold of bum fuck Maine had its own appeal. Everyone he spoke to, which hadn’t been many now that he thought about it, all seemed nice and engaging. He was struck by their Northeastern accents and a few of the older men shook with a twinge of palsy when they offered him directions or advice, reminding him of a world full of Katherine Hepburns.

The expansive sky seemed bigger out this way, and there were only a few tufts of white pillows breaking up that robin’s egg blue from horizon to horizon. Even the faint odor of rotting fish from the nearby cove brought a familiar comfort to his nostrils. It made him feel like he’d just arrived home from an extended trip and was free to reminisce with all the smells and textures he’d long since forgotten. He drove slowly down Atlantic Street, staring into the bay just to watch the trawlers heading out to fill another net and cargo hold with groundfish; particularly the prized yellowtail flounder and haddock, since cod had long been overfished and was now only a faded memory. Colton would hear the conversations in days to come, when it seemed every store he stopped into had a few older fishermen standing in the corner and telling tales of glories in those past prized catches. Their eyes would glaze over with pure, fond recollections of the hundreds of cod fighting strong in the balance of overflowing nets. Next to the weather and the waves, Brantley would learn Rockford’s favorite conversations always turned to the former cod hauls, and the money it brought into town.

Winding along the barren roadway, he noticed stop signs standing guard at intersections. He doubted it was even possible to see two cars arriving simultaneously at intersecting points along this road. Colton figured it was just city compliance, showing the world even Rockland obeyed the rules of society when it came to driving, but he seriously doubted there had been a car ticketed this far out of town in years. He passed by bland metal buildings assembled from kits and parked over concrete slabs. He speculated they must be gymnasiums or makeshift factories for local manufacturing plants. God, it is desolate out this far out.

He was beginning to think the drive, although relaxing, wasn’t going to bear fruit. He suspected he’d have to go beyond Clam Cove and try another. There were plenty around, like Lermond Cove and Kelley’s Cove, and there were nice homes along where the ferries had service and shuttled both tourists and natives to the four closest islands to the coastline. But before he continued further, he noticed a real estate sign for a dilapidated cabin marked for sale. Thinking on his feet, he pulled over and phoned the number of the agent on the ‘Happily Ever After Realty’ sign planted in the front of that spacious lot.

Colton asked how long the cabin had sat empty and discovered it had been vacant for over two years. Agent Carl droned on and on about the failing market, complaining the property was standing at lot value alone now, since anyone worthy of buying would surly want a larger house than the two bedrooms single bath rundown hunter’s cabin which had been the bane of his existence all during the two yearlong listing.

He grinned at the news. Do you think the owner would consider a short-term lease for a hefty monthly rental? He could hear old Carl, who’d been eating throughout their conversation, nearly choke on the food sliding down his gullet.

I guess he might, he said over his hacking up of his dinner. It’d have to be short-term lease with one month advance and one month’s worth of security…but you haven’t even seen the insides…you want to meet me tomorrow at the property to take a gander?

If you promise me the toilet and plumbing works, I’ll just meet you at your office and sign a lease and deposit the cash. You can do a lease template typed up, right?

For sure, but this is only if the owner has no problems with it. I don’t figure he will since the property’s been nothing but a drain. I’ll call and confirm when I hang up with you and get my girl to type up something…what timeframe you looking at?

Two, maybe three months. I’ll leave that up to you, and if you still like my money after that time and the place is still empty and without buyers, we can talk again at that time. I have the cash and I gotta tell you I recently got separated and just jumped in the car and headed outta town. Since I have the cash…or at least until my wife drains me. And I just want some time and privacy. You guarantee that, and I’ll guarantee a timely payment for rent without problems…what time you wanna meet, Carl?

Two, two-thirty, anything is fine… he offered. You need the address?

Got it off your sign…see ya tomorrow afternoon, and thanks. Colton hung up, pleased that he had accomplished finding a place in the sticks to hang out and collect his thoughts. Now, he just needed to cash in some travelers checks at the local bank and grab some much needed dinner.

Heading back into downtown, Colton was amazed to see the number of boats dotting the marina. There must have been fifty of them, mostly tiny, two-man sail boats, all littering the white crests a mile or two into the bay. He had spent over two years on the road, with few breaks in-between, and figured it must be nice to have such leisure time without having to look over his shoulder for FBI agents or local police.

Colton’s journey began with the murder of a girlfriend he’d met from college. Virginia Marsden had a great deal to look forward to in her life, and she had become Brantley Colton’s best friend and his most secure rock to cling to whenever the waters became as choppy as they were in the Rockland Bay. Her life was stopped short when by chance she came across a serial killer of women and was abducted, raped, and then murdered. Colton’s world was turned upside down at the news. He’d been crippled with grief and despair, and when the police seemed unable to locate her killer…he had. He’d quit his job, cashed