Kentucky Murders: A Small Town Murder Mystery (2 page)

What had she ever seen in that animal? Well, she supposed that when they’d first started dating she’d been attracted to his handsome, angular face, ice-gray eyes, dirty blond hair, and lean, but muscular body. He was that handsome, bad boy, athlete and all the high school girls had had a crush on him. But that was high school.

She lay in the grass, looking up at the full moon lighting the night sky like a giant, naked light bulb. The last of the tears had dried. She struggled to stand up.

As she walked home she continued to rub her cheek. She passed Hal’s Barbershop at the west end of the business district. She dug into her purse, found her cigarettes, and lit up. The storefronts loomed dark and silent except for Folsom’s Bakery across the street. The sweet smell of fresh-baked doughnuts floated through the night air. Judy Keeton was baking tomorrow’s batch of glazed doughnuts and apple fritters for the factory workers who would crowd around her counter at sunrise. She passed the Rexall Drugs, Reynolds Books, and Pete’s Shoe Repair. The town lacked variety and competition; there was only one gas station, one hardware store, one beauty salon, and one diner. She looked up at the one and only traffic light at the center of town. It flashed yellow, with no traffic to signal. Her heels clicked along the sidewalk, which was sheltered by metal-framed cloth awnings. Michaeltown was boring, just like her life. The older folks called the town peaceful and safe, but Kate felt trapped, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

She turned up Third Avenue toward her house, which was two blocks up and around the corner on Hyde Street. The porch light lit her path as she approached number 122. Her watch read 10:15, meaning that Mom had probably gone to bed and that Dad was watching the ten o’clock news. Hesitating on the front steps, she finally decided to go in. The door was unlocked and she could hear the TV in the living room.

“Kate?” called her father. His footsteps slowly thumped across the carpet toward her.

“Yes, Daddy, it’s me.” She reached back, flipped off the porch light and stood in the dark foyer, trying not to rub her cheek. It hurt to talk.

“You’re early.” He stood in front of her, bent down, and squinted to see her. She turned her head so he couldn’t see her swollen face. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Tommy and I had a fight.” She had never lied to him before and wasn’t about to start now. “We broke up. Well, I actually broke up with him.” She wasn’t going to cry. In fact, in thinking about it, she felt so relieved. It was like she had awakened from a bad dream. “He’s never been right for me, and I finally realized it.” She again reached toward her cheek, but lowered her hand.

Her dad reached for the hall light switch, but she grabbed his hand to stop him. “No,” she said softly. “You go back and finish your news. I’m going straight to bed. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

He squeezed her hand. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Good night, Daddy.” She leaned over, kissed his wrinkled cheek, and started climbing the stairs.

“Good night, Kate,” he said.

In her room, she slowly undressed. Her face had stopped throbbing, but it felt warm. Her headache had gotten worse. It hurt to touch her cheek. She thought of that old joke where the patient says: “Doc, it hurts when I touch my cheek.” The doctor responds: “Then don’t touch your cheek.” She smiled in the darkness, but that hurt, too.

She sat at her bureau and leaned in close to the mirror. With her hands, she pulled back her shoulder-length blond hair to reveal her cheeks, so she could compare them to see if the swelling was visible. Tilting her head one way, then the other, she couldn’t really see a difference in the dim light. She looked into her eyes, which usually appeared to be green, but they looked gray. At least he hadn’t given her a black eye. She gently ran a finger over her wounded cheek and thought she felt puffiness.

The next morning, she would do her best to conceal the swelling with makeup, but for a few days, the injury would be difficult to hide. She wondered how her father would have reacted if he had seen the evidence of what Tommy had done to her. Dad had never raised a hand to anyone, but what would he do to defend his only daughter?

Pulling down the blanket and sheet, she crawled into bed. She lay there, wearing only panties, and she fanned herself with a magazine. Her eyes open, she listened to the hum of the TV downstairs and heard an occasional rumble of a car passing by. Crickets chirped below her open window. Life went on.

At about eleven she heard her father shut off the TV. She listened to his slippers slap as he climbed the stairs and disappeared down the hallway. A door opened and closed, and then the house went quiet.

A disturbing sound broke the short silence.

She instantly recognized the chugging of a diesel truck engine. The truck came slowly closer and halted in the street out front. In the darkness, she smelled, or maybe imagined smelling, cigarette smoke. She felt Tommy sitting down there in his truck, puffing on a cigarett
e
waitin
g
and watching.

Would she ever really be free of him? She pulled the sheet up to her chin as if that would protect her. She finally heard him shift gears and pull away from the curb. The engine’s sound slowly faded into the night.

Had he known that she was listening? Had he come there just to scare her? Was his twisted mind plotting against her? She reached for her cigarettes, sat up in bed, smoked, and worried.

Chapter 4

On Monday morning, Zack woke with an ache that throbbed in his head and rang in his ears. He had been drunk for four days and nights, only leaving his place for food or beer. He’d watched soaps, movies, cartoons, and rock videos, which only provided a temporary escape from his unfortunate reality. Jim had shown up Saturday afternoon, and they had drunk more beer and watched a Tiger’s game. Not once did they mention Zack’s layoff.

“Shit,” he said, sitting up in bed. A sharp pain shot though his skull. “No more beer,” he vowed.

Holding his head to keep his brains from gushing out, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still wearing blue jeans, a Detroit Redwings T-shirt, and white socks. At least he’d remembered to take off his shoes.

The palm of his hand remained pressed to his forehead, as he shuffled across the bedroom carpet toward the bathroom. As he reached for the shower door, a spark jumped from his fingertip to the metal door handle. “Owww,” he yelled. He shook his finger, and turned on the hot water. Dropping his other hand from his forehead, he braced himself with both arms on the sink and stared at the stranger in the mirror. He remembered the young, athletic-looking Zack, with his neatly trimmed, medium-length brown hair, sideburns, brown eyes, and a face that had made girls smile and turn their heads when he walked by.

The man in the mirror wasn’t the Zack he knew. Dark bags hung under his bloodshot eyes, and a four-day beard ran wild across his face and neck. The face in the mirror looked to be at least ten years older than Zack, who was twenty-three. Hadn’t he seen a man with a similar face begging for quarters on a Detroit street corner? Didn’t he see his dad looking like this often enough when he was growing up? He closed his eyes briefly and then undressed. Steam poured over the top of the shower walls. He opened the door, stepped inside, and was surrounded by the soothing heat.

A few hours later, wearing fresh clothes and with two slices of cold pizza tucked into his stomach, Zack felt almost aliv
e
almost. The pain in his head had subsided to a dull ache.

A decision had come to him during his long, relaxing shower.

He went down to his car and drove to the Auto Workers Credit Union. He cashed his final paycheck, withdrew his savings, and closed his bank account. When he arrived back at his apartment, a thick envelope containing $1,245 sat next to him on the passenger seat, broken into sixty-two crisp twenty-dollar bills and one worn five. The teller had tried to give him fifties or hundreds, but Zack had insisted on the twenties. The thick stack looked better to him and, after all, he had never carried any bill larger than a twenty. He wouldn’t feel right buying a cheeseburger with a hundred-dollar bill.

Mrs. Wilson was out front again when he pulled up, this time pushing an edger with a wooden handle back and forth along the side of the driveway. She smiled as he got out. “How are you feeling today?” she asked.

“Except for a headache, I think I’ll live.”

“Have you recovered from the shock of being laid off yet?” she asked.

Zack felt her genuine concern for him. “Yeah, I think I have.” He took the edger from her and began trimming the grass.

“Zack.” She touched his arm, and he stopped and looked at her. “Don’t worry about the rent. This old place is paid for, and I have Bernie’s pension check and Social Security. You just give me what you can, if anything, until you’re back on your feet.”

She was like a mother to him, but better. She cared but didn’t interfere, and she suggested but didn’t demand. She’d always been good to him, even when his parties got too loud. He looked at her. “I’ve made a decision,” he said, dreading having to tell her. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but his decision had been made. “I’m leaving town.” He watched her eyes drop to the pavement. “The way things are going, I’ll never find a job around here. Too many people are out of work. I have to go where the jobs are. I’m sorry.”

When she looked back up, he saw her trying to contain her emotions and smile. “I understand. If that’s what you think you have to do, then, by all means, do it.”

She had come through again. He hadn’t doubted that she would.

“I’ll write,” he told her quickly.

“Don’t make any promises. If you get a chance, fine. But don’t feel obligated. If you ever want to come back, you’ll always have a place here.”

“I’ve got packing to do.” He handed the edger back to her. “Will you be around in an hour or so to see me off?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She gently pushed him. “Go on.”

He had forgotten his headache by the time he dropped the last armful of his belongings into the trunk. Back upstairs, he made a final tour of the apartment to see if he had missed a pair of shoes, a radio, or whatever. He had gotten it all, not that he had that much to pack.

He called the telephone company and then his sister to tell her his plan and that he’d be in touch when he got settled somewhere. Finally, he descended the stairs, ready for his journey.

Zack stepped into a big hug from Mrs. Wilson, as he left his home for the last time. He heard her quiet sobs and felt her tears dampen his shirt as they embraced. “You take care, son,” she whispered in a wobbly voice.

As he backed his car out, she stood all alone, waving good-bye, and Zack returned the good-bye regretfully.

Chapter 5

Jesse raised the muzzle of his .22 rifle and took aim. He squeezed the trigger and a beer bottle exploded twenty-five feet away.

“Go ahead,” said Tommy. “See how many you can hit in a row. Let’s bet a six-pack.”

“You’re on, sucker.” He aligned the gun sights on the next bottle in the long row they had laid on a decayed log. The rifle cracked, and the next bottle shattered. Jesse grinned over the rifle stock at Tommy. “I’ll take Bud,” he said and aimed at the next bottle.

“Just keep shootin’.”

Jesse hit the next bottles in the line, but missed the fifth.

Tommy laughed and snatched the rifle from him. “Four? This will be the easiest six-pack I ever won.” Once when they were teenagers he had hit twenty bottles in a row. He slid more rounds from an open box into the rifle’s loading tube and twisted it closed. He then placed the rifle butt against his shoulder and squinted through the sights. “Watch this.” After a deep breath, he gently squeezed the trigger and the next bottle disintegrated. Exhale, breathe, and squeeze. The second bottle burst. Soon after, the third and the fourth bottles were hit. Tommy paused, looked over at Jesse, and winked.

“You’re gonna choke,” said Jesse, with hope in his eyes.

Tommy said nothing, but just smiled again, and aligned the sights for the next shot. “Watch this.”
Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam
, the gunshots sounded. He missed the last shot of the rapid-fire string. “Damn!” he yelled as he lowered the gun. “What’s that, eight?” He shook his head. “Too bad, man, I believe I doubled your score.” He pointed at Jesse. “I’ll take Schlitz, sucker.”

Two bottles remained in line. “Now check this out,” he said. He opened the door of his truck and leaned inside. He laid the .22 on the seat and removed a 12-gauge pump shotgun from the rack in the back window. Returning to his place in front of the bottles, he pumped a shell into the chamber and aimed it in.
Booooom
. The sound echoed through the forest. They had driven several miles out of town to an old dirt road leading into woods where they used to hunt deer as teenagers. The shotgun blast had been many times louder than the crack of the .22, but there was no one else within range to hear the shots. With another thunderous boom, the last bottle and part of the log it had been sitting on were gone.

Jesse slowly clapped his hands as he walked to the back of the truck and sat on the open tailgate. Reaching into the cooler, he pulled out two beers and tossed one to Tommy. “I fall for it every time,” he said. He popped the top of a beer can and drank.