The Bamboo Murders

The Bamboo Murders

by Dan Lee

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and Danny Boy Stories logo, are

© Copyright 2017 by Danny Boy Stories, a Sole Proprietorship

Aka: DeVon C. Lee

Aka: D. C. Dan Lee

Warsaw, Indiana, 46582

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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SMASHWORDS ISBN #  9781370059126

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No part of anything contained within this publication may be reproduced without the expressed, written consent, of the author. Names, people, places and events in this volume are entirely fictitious and any similarity to real persons, places or events, is entirely coincidental.

The Bamboo Murders

Fiction

By

Dan Lee

This story is fictional, taking place in a fictionalized Kansas City, Kansas, in 1955. Although inspired by real events at some time and at some place in history, this story is the work of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events are purely coincidental. Any similarities whatsoever to real persons dead or alive is likewise coincidental.

SYNOPSIS

Danny Cain thought a six-year stint as a United States Marine Corps Military Policeman was enough. Add to that plenty of action on the front lines of the Korean police action with UN troops, and he was ready for something new, a change of scenery. Mrs. Ruth Able provided the change.

Forming a private investigating team, Danny and Ruth face deadly action in 1955 Kansas City, Kansas, working to locate a serial killer wiping out homeless American veterans with a most unusual murder weapon.

Their partnership is the beginning of a long relationship.

There is plenty of action in this first in a series of Cain and Able Adventures. You’ll find plenty of romance, and hard-nosed police work, too, from start to finish.

If you like action, Cain and Able is your team.

Chapter 1

One day soon, my son, when you least expect it, I will blow your head off. You will not be able to torment your mother further with your evil ways.

My father’s words, delivered quietly, hung in the air. They were cold, thick as an early winter fog refusing to give way to the sun. Watching speechless from my bedroom near the living room, the declaration sent a shiver up my spine. Goose bumps raised on my arms and legs. The cotton in my mouth prevented me from making any sound. Dad turned on his heel and walked deliberately into the living room. He went out the front door. I heard the car start, and back out of the driveway next to the house. I knew dad was on his way to the office.

During the confrontation between my father and brother, Mark, I imagined my brother’s face, his eyes locked on my father’s eyes. Mark was evil, challenging our father, as he always did. The left side of his mouth curled up into a sneer, daring a physical confrontation that Dad would not accept. It was not the first altercation between the two. It was impossible to count how many times they had quarreled. Usually, conflict between dad and Mark came after Mark beat up someone at school, stole from Mom’s grocery money or the liquor cabinet, or they caught him lifting merchandise from a local store. More than once he had set fire to nearby fields of ripe, dry wheat and oats, causing destruction of the crop and any equipment left in the way.

This time the hostile encounter was different. Mark slapped Mom in the face so hard she fell backward across the kitchen floor, a gash in her leg from the kitchen range. All because Mom refused to get Mark a glass of milk with his breakfast. Listen, bitch, get my damned glass of milk! Mark had shouted. He jumped from his chair and hit Mom with the full force of his open hand in a full swing of his arm. When I kneeled to aide her, Mark hit me in the back of the head with a pan of hot oatmeal off the stove.

Mark, three years older than me, had been a holy terror in our home since he was seven or eight years old. I avoided him the best I could most of my childhood. I grew to six feet tall early in the eighth grade, so Mark concentrated his attacks on mother. He vanished for days at a time, often coming home in the early morning hours.

Four months later, on the last day of my Freshman year in high school, I arrived home to find dozens of policemen scattered over my home like so many ants seeking to devour a sugar lump.

I screamed for my mother, bolting passed officers at the front door. A policeman in plain clothes tried to stop me from going down the hall. I froze near my bedroom door. Blood streaked the hallway walls, the acrid smell of gunpowder and human blood punctuated the air. A chill began at the base of my spine and raced up into my shoulders and arms. Adrenalin poured into my abdomen and chest. I felt my cheeks grow numb, my mouth became dry as milkweed silk.

My father kept his word.

The shotgun blast burst my brother’s head like a pin to a balloon. Blood and tissue spattered Mark’s bedroom walls, his nearly headless body sprawled on his bed where it fell. I stepped over my mother lying in a heap further down the small hallway. The shotgun blast to her chest soaked her in her own blood. My father lay on top of her legs, his blood and tissue dripping from the ceiling. He swallowed the barrel of the shotgun after killing my brother and mother and squeezed the trigger.

The strong smell of death and burned gunpowder filled our home. The social worker, who put her arm around my shoulder and spoke softly and caringly, could not eradicate the acrid odor from my nostrils and mind.

Police said neighbors heard mother scream, three loud bangs, and then nothing until the wail of the police sirens they called grew louder.

I spent the last three years of high school in foster care. The family home eventually sold, the proceeds put in a trust account for me until my 21st birthday. I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps the Monday following high school graduation. I did not return to Wabash, Indiana, while in the Corps.

* * *

March 25, 1955

Ouch! My head bounced off the window for what must have been the twentieth time.

I’m damn sick and tired of my head bashing the passenger side window. I don’t want to turn my brain to mush. I just want a ride across the country!

There would be no more shuteye on this junket.

U.S. Highway 24 was rough going across Illinois and Missouri, not much better than a county blacktop. Because the new Interstates are coming, there are no US 24 repairs. That last chuckhole was my limit. Oh, yeah, I realize if I hitch hike I take what I can get. Damn it, I didn’t care where I’m going, I want to get there in one piece, thank you very much.

I sat up and peered at the windshield. Snow peppered the glass. It was unseasonably cold for late March. The late-night lights of Kansas City, Missouri, spread from right to left before us. I could see the lights of Kansas City, Kansas, across the river. They reflected an eerie blue and yellow glow on the truck's Kelly green dashboard someone repainted with a course brush. Sloppy brush marks created an image resembling furrows of a planted Iowa cornfield. The cab was clean. Only the strong fuel smell bothered me.

You get any sleep, bud? the driver asked.

Sleep, he asked? Can anyone catch sleep bouncing three inches off the seat every 30 seconds? I’m grateful for the ride, but I worry how much my body can take.

Nah. The chuckholes kept me awake, I replied. Not your fault. I hoped I didn’t sound ungrateful he’s giving me a free ride.

When they get that Interstate stuff started and finished, it’s gonna be great, but meantime roads like 24 beg for repair work, the driver said. Where you headed young fella? he asked.

Not sure, I said. I mustered out two weeks ago, so I’m roaming around to get my civilian head screwed back on, I said, pulling at the bill on my old Marine field cap for emphasis.

I’m damn proud of my service, and glad I didn’t catch a fatal round in Korea, I said. ‘Police action’, they called it. Like hell! Korea was war, plain and simple. It doesn’t take a Rhoades Scholar to know when bullets are flying and artillery shells are blowing up your buddies around you, it’s war."

Thinking about it angered me again.

I’m Dusty Rhoads, the driver said. Glad to help you.

This was our first conversation in the several hours since leaving Indiana. I’m not much for chit-chat. Guess I’d rather the old guy pay attention to the two tracks through the snow on the canyon pocked roadway.

Dusty, a scruffy man over 50, chewed two toothpicks protruding from the left side of his mouth. His arm muscles strained at plaid shirtsleeves. His barrel chest attested to years of heavy work or weight lifting. I imagined the stocky fellow bristling with sweat, kicking sand, winning the beautiful girl in those Charles Atlas ads in the Sunday comics section. Dusty picked me up on US24 in Wabash several hours ago, and now we were entering Kansas City, Missouri.

Danny Cain, I replied. Dusty Rhoades, huh? That’s rich.

Every damn fool with the last name of Rhoades is called ‘Dusty’, he said, laughing. My given name is Dennis. Either way, my name has no charm or class. It’s a plain name, I think.

Ah, sure, Dusty, I said, Nothing wrong with Dennis or Dusty. How’d you like to have the moniker ‘Danny Cain’ with no middle initial? Everyone makes jokes I’m a killer waiting to pounce with my pet rock, just like in the Bible.

Dusty glanced my way. Well, now, Danny Cain, what do you figure you want to do with the rest of your life? Dusty asked.

Wish I had it figured for sure, I replied. Six years as a Marine MP, that’s how I finished my tour. Maybe I should continue being a cop. I didn’t want to tell Dusty I had no idea, and I’m just clicking off miles for now. Although police work is my specialty, I want to relax for a while.

It’s a good thing to do, if you are good at it, Dusty replied.

Oh, I’m damned good at it, I said. but do I want to spend the rest of my life poking and dodging shadows?

You look mighty young, Dusty said. You’ll figure it out."

Soon as we're across the bridge, can you let me out, Dusty? I said, rubbing the sore crown of my head. I’ve had enough riding for today. I want to catch some Z’s in a soft bed.

You bet, he said. Hope you get where you're going, and find what you're looking for, young fellow.

I’ll figure it out, I said.

Our voices pierced the drone of the engine in the otherwise quiet cab. We trusted each other, although we had never met. It was a long ride from Indiana. How do you get to know someone when no one speaks?

I separated from active service just three weeks ago, and flew home to Indiana. There just wasn’t anyone or any reason to keep me there, I said. Only a few old classmates around town, and no old girlfriends I could find. So, what the Hell, I decided to hitchhike across the country. I’ve always been a bit of a loner anyway. I didn’t feel like explaining why I had no family in Indiana.

You ever play sports? You look like a pretty tall, strapping young man? Dusty asked.

I’m six-four, so basketball was my thing, I said. But, those all-conference and statewide trophies in high school haven’t done me any good. You can’t put ‘basketball forward’ on a job application. I just packed all that hardware in storage last week with the things the folks left me.

I didn’t tell Dusty sale of the folk’s house and furnishings gave me a sizeable savings account. No mortgage, so it was all free and clear. Life insurance doesn’t pay off in murder suicide. I took cash out Friday, but I’ll save the rest. It’ll come in handy if I settle somewhere. I’m traveling light with my Marine duffle bag only half-full. North American Van Lines has all my other stuff in a storage warehouse in Wabash. I pre-paid a hefty deposit for them to ship stuff to me once I settle somewhere.

Dusty was the first to stop for me on Manchester Avenue in Wabash. He headed west on 24, and that’s the only reason I’m heading west now. I guess it was my luck of the draw. On the other hand, maybe God had a plan for me. When I walked out onto 24, I didn’t care which direction, I just wanted out of Wabash. I grew up in this nice little town, but the absence of my folks and others my age gave me an empty feeling of being alone. I wanted out. Anyway, I was tired of all the sympathy looks I got from well-meaning folks wherever I went downtown.

My last three high school years were in foster care. Who could like that? Don’t get me wrong, my foster parents were great, but they weren’t my real parents. A kid needs his own kind, you know. My classmates mostly didn’t talk about what happened, or that my parents were dead. There were those snobs who did. It doesn’t make for a jolly three years in high school with people whispering about you.

The snow against the windshield picked up. The nasty wind was blowing straight at us and seemed to increase as we came off the bridge over the Mississippi, or was it the Missouri? I’ll find out soon enough.

Chapter 2

The snub-nosed Ford semi-tractor with its 42-foot-long trailer pulled over and rolled to a stop along Minnesota Avenue, U.S. 24, in Kansas City, Kansas. I shoved my duffle bag over my legs, down onto the snow-covered concrete curbing, and turned to wave my appreciation for the lift.

Hey, hold on, Bud, the driver shouted over the whining wind and noise of the engine, If you wanna head back east, I'll be coming through here in three weeks, April 15th. Just wait across the street at this intersection at just about this time. I’ll look for you. Always glad to have the company of a Marine. Remember, I come through here every three weeks heading east or west.

Hey, I may just do that, I shouted, and slammed the truck door. In the back of my mind, the driver’s invitation seemed like an offer to escape if I needed. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.

I stood surveying the overcast, blustery cold night. Snow pellets propelled by the wind stung my face. I looked at my wristwatch, eleven-forty-five. On Friday night at about this time, police patrol cars would surely stop someone who looked like a transient passing through. Sure enough, I fit the profile. The increased glow of lights on the overcast sky told me the business district must be west of me. I headed toward what I thought would be downtown to look for police headquarters. Street signs told me I was half way between North 4th and North 5th Streets, for all the good it would do without a map. I’m in Kansas City my first time ever. Downtown appeared to be dead ahead.

I leaned over and straightened the blouse on my olive drab pants. After six military years, it’s tough to quit blousing my fatigues over the top of spit-shined combat boots. It’s a damned habit. I like to wear my old, frayed, olive drab duty cap, too. I sprang for a new, wool lined, black leather jacket and a baby blue, button-down shirt. I bought several colors.

It’s my new look: Black jacket, white wool scarf--a nice contrast with a military look--rugged, and ready-for-anything. I’m glad I bought the leather jacket. It’s perfect to help insulate against this blasted cold March wind. Can’t complain, it doesn’t measure up to the Korean winter freezer.

I hoisted the duffle bag onto my left shoulder. The bag struck me as unusually light compared to when packed full of my military gear. I jogged across to the south side of Minnesota Avenue, toward what I thought would be the center of the downtown Kansas City area ahead. I figured the police station should be close to the the central business district.

The icy snow and sleet peppered my face like hundreds of tiny shards of glass, each trying to slash into my flesh. I dropped my head so the bill of my cap would shield some of my face. It was a mistake. My loosened scarf let the cold snow and rain run down my neck and back, like a freezing river.

I felt it coming, the shiver up my spine. I knew what was next. It happened every time I caught a chill. My mind raced back to that time in the hallway of our Indiana home, now nearly 10 years in the past.

I could see my brother’s lifeless body sprawled across his bed, two-thirds of his head blown away. Dad lay in the hall on top of Mom, both dead. Blood and brain tissue splattered the walls and ceiling. It was like some crazed artist had been on a rampage, swinging his laden brushes. There was the unmistakable heavy smell of blood, gunpowder, and death.

Death does have a distinct odor, you know. I witnessed it too many times in Korea.

Maybe God has forsaken me.

God, let me forget! I screamed.

I looked quickly around, to the right and left, hoping no one heard my scream in the dead of night. I was breathing heavily, even though the walk was not physically strenuous. I quickened my pace, thinking a squad car may stop me before I found police headquarters. I'll keep heading west on Minnesota toward the brighter glow in the night sky ahead.

After about 10 minutes walking, I came to a bar in the middle of the block. I entered and immediately gagged. My body wanted to puke. The place was full of smoke and the acrid smell of spilled booze and stale tobacco. The bartender stood just ahead, behind the full-length bar on the left. Why couldn’t he be closer to me at the door? I headed for the server station along one end. How could people stand the stench and still have a good time. I’ve been in a lot of bars. Some very disgusting ones in the Far East. Apparently, these Kansas folks just numbed their brain with beer and whiskey to put up with this place.

The bar was nearly full with noisy patrons on this foul Friday night. People were shouting at one another trying to hear over a loud jukebox spewing Johnny Cash lyrics into the atmosphere. Every booth jammed, every table chair taken. There were no vacancies at the bar, either. My boots made a crackling sound on the sticky floor with each step. I’d only been in the place a minute and felt like I needed a shower.

You 21, kid? the bartender said, looking down at the printing on my duffle bag. I didn’t set it down on the grimy floor. No sense carrying the stink on my bag.

Twenty-four, I said, producing my Indiana driver's license. I just want to know how to get to the police station, I said.

You in trouble, Marine? the bartender asked, shoving