Sunday, November 16, 2014

Back at the bar (Blogophilia 39.7)

Without a word, the bartender put the drink next to his hand. The 3 sheets was quiet this time of night. It was getting close to last call and all rowdy yuppies had either paired off or passed out on the bar. Not drunk enough to shake off the rage, he was finding it hard to focus. He chugged the scotch without thinking.  A sharp pain followed. With a curse, he pulled the stirrer away from his eye dabbed his face with the bar napkin.  The offending alcoholic droplets remaining were spared from going into his eyes.

Two blond heads were nodding and arguing over the latest sex offender stats on the screen over the bar. They tried to one up themselves on what the best method to deal with this “crisis”. One championed longer prison terms. The other was touting a medical treatment that would cause the prisoner to collapse like a myotonic goat was upon arousal. Kind of a reverse Viagra, with everything deflating as one part inflates.  

A smirk crossed Jeremy’s face as he heard the story. He really didn’t care. Mother had already taken care of that part of him. She couldn’t take him as he was, a man who wanted acceptance and love. He had taken care of her in return.  Eye for an eye, or life for my balls, take your choice. Really smiling at that thought, the rage over the visit to the psychic slowly ebbed. 

He still needed to take care of the Pigs. He thought back to a preacher he saw on television once. He was telling some story about talents, whatever they were. He guessed they had something to do with money, but he really wasn’t sure. But the gist was of three slaves, two accomplished something and the other one didn’t. The Master didn’t take kindly to the one’s ultimate lazy moment and had him cast out. Jeremy wasn’t going to be that guy. 

As brooded, the next story came in over the screen. It was the apartment complex he was at earlier. The sound was too low to really understand what the automaton was saying, but it appeared the murder he stumbled on may have had some company. 

Jeremy smiled at that.

He now had a way to draw the bastards in.  


Topic-Tyler Myrth

Pic-Dave Raider (Still wondering where he is)

Pic Guesses-Woody, Surf City, Wagon wheels, Museum piece. 

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Monday, Monday....(Blogophilia 38.7)

Monday, Monday.
Can’t trust that day…

7:00 AM and the bullpen was a beehive of activity. Weak sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to invigorate everyone. Phones ringing and message systems pinging, it was a far cry from the late Saturday night, where it was a silent as a funeral in a hard Kentucky rain. The captain was true to his word and left him alone Sunday to get some sleep. He was back with a clear mind a cup of extra strong coffee. Jackson had beaten him in and waved when he cleared the hallway.

“Yo! Wally!” Jackson called out. “Latent Prints got a hit on the victim yesterday.”

“Nice way to start the day.” Sitting down, Murray took a sip out of the cup and winced. He opened the notebook to a clean page.

 “Let me have it.” 

“Diego Rodriguez Aguirre, 23, a Salvadoran National here illegally. Has convictions for weapons and narcotics possession. Last arrest was for loitering with intent on Jimmy Carter in January. FTA warrant out of Dekalb for a misdemeanor assault. Last known address was a dump in Chamblee. Does have a prior address at the Graves, though.”

Murray scratched at his ear as he listed the information. It was too early to hear this jackass bray, even though what he was saying was good. Jackson pulled out another piece of paper and continued.

“Get this. The Emergency Contact Probation has on file is a Sister, Maria Aguirre Torres. The phone number listed comes back disconnected. But her last known address is in the complex in Doraville that Witch Hazel showed in her scare piece. “

Eyes rising at the last statement, Murray kept writing the notes.

“That’s interesting. We’ll go there this afternoon. Meanwhile, You, me and the Cap are gonna hang here with Artie for a bit.” Jackson’s face crinkled as if he had opened a sewer.

Turning back a couple of pages, Murray continued.

“I did catch him over the weekend for a quick briefing, though. Their first victim happened back in November. Female, young and with the Tattoo. Found dumped on the side of Pleasantdale right at the county line.  One GSW upper torso. She was unidentified for quite a while like our hooker, apparently never got into the system. They now have a tentative ID, waiting on notification before releasing.”

Second victim was in April. Female with the Tattoo, but they got lucky with her. She had a shoplifting arrest out of Cobb County. Her name was Felicia Nagodoches, 18 and a Salvadoran. She was also found on Pleasantdale, but in one of the complexes a little further down toward Tucker.”

“The third victim was found Wednesday in Doraville. He’s male. They don’t have an official ID on him yet, so he may be a recent arrival that hasn’t had a chance to get into the system.”

Murray drained his cup.

“When all the tattoos matched, the Homicide commander called for the cavalry in the form of Artie. When he saw the second girl’s record, Artie got smart and called the gang unit out in Cobb and hit pay dirt. Bella Paloma is a group from a village in the mountains northeast of San Salvador. They began showing up in Cobb about four years ago. They are primarily into the prostitution, specializing in young girls. Artie may have a bit more info for us on this one. The meeting is at 9:30, so I’m guess we’ll hit the phones from now until then. Do we have an ETA on the autopsy?”

Jackson clicked a couple keys and turned his head towards his screen. “Not yet, but Captain put a bug in the ME’s office to make it priority. Did we have any other body calls this weekend?”

“Only an old lady found in her living room over in Snellville. Looks natural, so Diego will probably go first at the table. Maybe a usable slug will turn up.”

“We can only hope.” And with that, Jackson picked up his phone and called up to Crime Scene to see if their report was finished.

Murray decided to spend a couple of minutes putting his mind to rest. He quickly typed the name into the statewide database and hit enter before he could stop himself. A couple of seconds later, the record for Jeremy Allen came up. He was now 27. The Murder and Arson charges didn’t show here because they had been handled in Juvenile Court. But there was a reference listed. He apparently was released about six months ago from Regional Hospital. A couple of minor scrapes since then. Last known address was an apartment in Buckhead. How could he afford that?

He then pulled up the registration on the Toyota, a 1996, Beige Camry that was indeed registered to Jeremy Allen. A couple of parking tickets and one speeding ticket associated with it. Surprised there wasn’t a brawl for that, given his love for the Police. All the tickets were from earlier than any of the current events, so it may have just been a coincidence he was there. Too early to tell, though. We’ll just file this and see if any other connections come up. 

He then typed in Bella Paloma. There was a bit more information out there since he had looked during the Hooker’s murder, mostly confirming Artie Gomez’s take. Diego’s name showed up about half way down the report. Apparently, he was a mid level runner, coordinating the pickup and drop off of girls from one location to another.

 But he wasn’t the actual pimp. That was a fellow with the street name of El Potro. He was still based in El Salvador and would only show up in Atlanta when it was time to collect the money. He was described as a short, stocky man that liked Stetson hats and fancy boots. He would fly in and Diego would be in charge of getting him from place to place.

 The girls were mostly the daughters of people who owed El Potro money.  They were given the choice: the girls or their lives. And more than once, they parents were killed anyway once the girls were gone, so there wouldn’t be anything for them to across the miles to return to. 

Murray began to daydream across the miles to the village these folks were escaping from. They were so far from home, yet so firmly tied there through the threat of violence.

“Murray. It’s time.”

Captain’s voice broke the spell. Maybe he can focus on something else. 


Topic-Dave Rader (Whatever happened to him?)

Pic-Linda Thurmond.

Pic Guesses: Long and winding road. Miles and miles, Country roads, Across the meadow, Homeward bound.

Friday, November 7, 2014

Coral Cloud-Hebrides Moon # 7

Coral cloud in indigo sky
Sun rises, birds flying high
Wispy snow covering like a hood
Over the cabin in the wood

Cup of coffee seaming cold hands
Flannel buttoned tight, hair in band
Pure serenity if she would
Over the cabin in the wood

Winter wedding, her beau asleep
Love in mind and soul grows deep
New life soon, if Lord would
In the cabin in the wood.

Coral Cloud in indigo sky
Over the cabin in the wood.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Bad Answer (Blogophilia 37.7)

Fear gripped him.

Then, rage. 

Going what seemed like 104 past the old golf course, the pounding began in his temples. The challenge to his plans was plainly obvious to him.

“Changes?” He said out loud. “Yes, there are. And I am the one in charge of them for once"

He wasn’t going to fail.  Even if he took out twenty nine people, Murray and Jackson were going down in flames. Picking up a piece of an old chocolate bar, he popped in this mouth. 

The cards did say the cycle would be ending, one way or another, which is true. He was going to end it. End it in a way that would be remembered for all times. If he goes with it, fine. Joining Sarah in bliss is consolation. And in those three cards was the validation that was sought.

Fates?  That was for the delusional and na├»ve. Not an enlightened person like himself.

He relaxed and slowed the car down. No need to attract attention yet. 

There were no more thoughts on the drive back to the apartment.
Jeremy’s sudden departure rattled Sandy. The cold glare he gave as he backed away chilled her to the marrow. Never before was something so dangerous brought up during a reading. 

It was time to pray.

Her gaze went to crystal sphere at her right hand. The reflected image of a rose on the sideboard behind her, brought her to focus. Sipping the last of her tea, she began to ponder.

No loose ends? The memory of an old client floated before her. A man so obsessed with his former wife, he couldn’t stop stalking her. With each reading, he would be more insistent at his goal. Like Vlad Tepes, Total domination and power even at the expense of their lives. 

Without thinking, she punched Jeremy’s name into Google. The first two pages brought up entries for a investment banker in New York that was active in art circles. That wasn’t what she wanted. Adding the modifiers “Georgia” and “Death” thinned it out. The second entry of the page stated:

“Minor boy found incompetent to stand trial.”

Opening the entry, she began to read. After a minute, she closed the it. Picking up her rosary, she began to cry. The Fates had indeed spoken. 


Topic-Christina Salsman

Picture-Gail Dormire.

Pic guesses-Rose (in blog), Smelling the roses. Thorns,