• Rod Kackley

Cult Killers: Dark Crime Fiction Chapter One

Chapter One

“We have absolutely no reason to believe this was any kind of a cult, or any kind of an organized activity,” said St. Isidore Police Chief Barry “Lumpy” Doolan. “These are just three sad cases of teenage girls who decided to take their own lives. One slashed her wrists. Two hung themselves.”

Two more questions and he’s outta here. I don’t need this. A radio reporter of all people, in my office. I didn’t know there were any of those left. How’d this one beat extinction? And here he is busting my balls over the worst case I have. What I ought to tell him is if I had a daughter, she would never get outside of our house until we solve this case. But that would shut down the town. I’d be like that cop in the Jaws movie who closes the beaches.

I know there is a sex cult involved in this. Sadomasochism is what it is called. And I am about to bring it down. All I need is some evidence. Like if I could play the guitar and sing, I could be a rock star. If only…

Adam had done it. The baby boomer, whose life had fallen just short of his dreams, had pushed through all of the barricades he set up for himself and cleared all of the self-erected hurdles that he had been tripping over all of his life. He had made it into Chief Doolan’s office. Adam did not have an appointment. He gave no warning. This was a total ambush. Complete profile in courage.

“Do you have any idea if this latest missing girl, Janice Jacobs, could be connected to the suicides of those girls you found in the woods?”

“We aren’t even sure if those cases are connected. This latest one, this girl named Janice, is older than any of the girls who have wound up in St. Isidore Forest,” Doolan said, sarcastically doing quote signs with his fingers in the air over the last three words of his sentence.

Doolan amazed even himself with his ability to lie with a straight face to the media, which in Swinging Izzy came down to one radio station, WSIR, and a popcorn fart of a TV station. Lumpy almost believed his own crap.

Doolan treated Adam with a little more respect than he would give most reporters. After all, Adam was a member of the police department. A reserve deputy isn’t very high up on the organizational chart. But Adam was on the chart, so he deserved a little bit of respect. A little bit.

“Are you even sure this girl, Alice, is missing?” Adam said.

“Couldn’t she have been kidnapped? Her car was found in the parking lot behind Fred’s, where she worked. Other employees saw her leave, but she never got home.”

“Adam, if there was anything else I could say, I would say it. Especially to you, you’re one of us.” Doolan almost choked on that. “There is nothing else I can tell you at this time.”

Adam wondered if the overstuffed chairs on his side of the Chief’s desk were purposely lower than Doolan’s chair. The way Adam was sinking into it made him look up at Doolan like a five-year old would look up at his father. If he had any balls about him — brass, tin or copper — Adam would have stood up and faced the Chief across the desk man-to-man. Unfortunately, his courage meter showed there wasn’t much left in the tank.

Instead Doolan stood up and walked around the desk toward Adam whose feet flew in the air as he pushed himself out of the chair. Adam was off balance when he offered his right hand to the Chief, Doolan countered it with a not-so-kind pat and shove on the shoulder, sending Adam spinning toward the door.

“If you have any other questions, please pick up the phone and call,” said Doolan. “Don’t show up at my door like this again, okay?”

It was a question that did not require a response other than a nod of understanding and submission.

So much for my ambush of Police Chief Barry “Lumpy” Doolan.

Adam was driving back to WSIR without even a nugget of new information and his pride barely intact. But at least he had done it. He walked into Doolan’s office without an appointment and started asking questions.

Adam was feeling pretty good about himself when he saw a girl, probably mid-twenties, pretty, really pretty, walking with a tall, middle-aged, white guy.

Adam had seen him before.

But where? Damn!

Cult Killers, Homicidal Manics, Mass Murder,

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Stories of St. Isidore by Rod Kackley

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