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;void(0)) By: Lionel A. LaVergne Dedicated to, Monna, my sweet wife and chief supporter. Innocence sometimes dies quickly. For me, the sound of my childhood fleeing abruptly was heralded by a loud blast followed by the smoke and flash of a revolver. Turtle, Louisiana in the year 1947 was a typical small town the sort of place people referred to as a wide spot in the road, or as a country town. Several small farms were scattered around just north of Turtle. Most of the adult males earned a living by rough necking either on land or off shore on oilrigs. The farms that dotted the landscape were mostly cotton and rice farms. The downtown area of Turtle had a department store that was owned by an elderly Jew named Mr. Horowitz. No one knew how Mr. Horowitz had found his way to the small community consisting mostly of Cajun families. Next to Mr. Horowitz’s department store sat Debreaux’s Drugs. That, establishment had been owned by the Debreaux family for several generations. Across from the department and drug store were two businesses, a place that sold furniture and a movie theatre. The entire downtown area was about six blocks square. City hall, the fire and police department and utilities, were all in one building at the southern end of downtown. To the rear of this building was a shed used to house prisoners. The sometimes guests of the city were usually locals who had too much to drink on Friday paydays. West of downtown, on Highway 78, a Piggly Wiggly grocery competed with a small store. The small grocery had been operated by several generations of McGees and had been in the same spot since the town had first been charted. Mr. Clovis McGee and his wife somehow managed to make a living in the small establishment. Many of the local poor Cajuns still shopped there exclusively since Piggly Wiggly didn’t offer credit. Mr. McGee sometimes carried customers on his books for months till someone in the family managed to earn a paycheck. East of Turtle, past the poor part of town, were the homes of the wealthy. The banker, car dealership owner, funeral director and the Baptist preacher all had large homes on five-acre lots. Most of the citizens of Turtle were Catholic, but it seemed most of the ones who had money were Baptist. Any Presbyterian or Methodist who came wandering into the area and wanted a church to attend had two choices, start one or move on. My dad had once been a tenant farmer near a larger town sixty miles west of Turtle but as most men his age had to eventually do in order to feed their families, he now worked for an oil drilling company. We moved to Turtle because it was one of the main areas used by the oil companies to recruit workers. My dad, Joe, my mom, Esther, my older brother, C.J., my little brother Clinton and I all lived in a small shotgun house just north of Turtle. A shotgun house is one where a person can stand in the front door, fire a shotgun, and have the pellets go out the back door. My name, Levi, short for Leviticus, has caused some misunderstandings in my life starting with Mr. Horowitz who got excited when he first heard my name. He assumed he had found another Jewish family when he met me. I was given that name because my mom loved reading the bible even though we were Catholic. Most Catholics never read the bible. They have their missal and assume that is all they need. While I was part of a protuberance my mom walked around carrying, she found the book of Leviticus and thought that it would be a really pretty name for a girl. I was the second child as well as the second son. I was born in her and dad’s bed on a hot morning in July. Although not the best endowed male around, there was still enough there to allow anyone to see I was definitely not a girl. Still, since she was so enamored with the name, I was christened Leviticus. School had been out for almost a week before I had a chance to go downtown to hang around and see what sort of trouble my friends and I could get into. I was not looking forward to the next school year when I would become a sixth grader. My brother, C.J., had told me the sixth grade was hell. He informed me things got really tough in that grade. I should have known better because anything to do with school was hell for C.J. He was not a good student. How he had reached the ninth grade, was one of our family’s mysteries. He probably accomplished his rise to that grade by using his charm and good looks, since he had a plentiful supply of both. I was a short, scrawny child unlike my tall well-built brother. My younger sibling, Clinton, who was big for his age and although not yet two, was tall and strong, unlike I had been at that age, I knew he’d soon be catching up with me and perhaps grow to be taller and larger then I ever would. I would be eighteen before I ever saw any other races besides Negro and white. In the southeast corner of Turtle was an area called Coon Town. I called it by that name because my parents did. In fact the whole town called it that, even the people who lived there called it Coon Town. The citizens of Coon Town were all Negro. Most of the whites in Turtle called dark people Nigger. The word was not meant to be a slur in the least, at least by most whites. Even the Negroes called themselves by that name, I thought nothing of that word, it wasn’t derogatory, at least I didn’t feel it was. The whites were all Cajun, except for Mr. Horowitz, who was a Jew. People with extremely dark complexions were Niggers. The term was no more meant to be a slur than Cajun or Jew. As I went all over the town I spoke to everyone and all the people of the town knew me. I felt comfortable with every one I met. Mr. Horowitz called me his little ‘Cajun Jew’ and the Niggers accepted me as simply another little kid. I ate meals with them, played ball with their children and I didn’t feel any different in their homes than I did in any of the Cajun homes. One day as I was walking down a dusty street that ran through Coon Town, just hanging around with my best friend, Jimmy Joe Joe, a young man I didn’t recognize stood across the street smoking a cigarette. As we walked by, the stranger yelled to Jimmy Joe Joe. “What the hell are you doing with that white son-of-a-bitch?” Turning to Jimmy Joe Joe, I asked why had the fellow called me that? Jimmy Joe Joe answered. “I suspecting he done tink yos a sumobitch.” “That’s not what I mean,” I explained to Jimmy Joe Joe. Why did he use the term, white?” Jimmy Joe Joe looked at me for a while then he shook his head and said, “I’s doon know why, Levi.” Jimmy Joe Joe was a huge black man. He was well over six feet tall with enormous arms and shoulders. Although Jimmy Joe Joe was probably in his late twenties he had the simple mind of a young child. Actually I was a lot smarter and understood most things much better then Jimmy Joe Joe did. My mom had explained to me that Jimmy Joe Joe was retarded. I figured that retarded was a type of a disease I couldn’t catch, so I didn’t care. It would be some years later before I realized I had encountered my first act of racial prejudice. The young Negro man hadn’t cared if I was a son of a bitch. He was only irate because Jimmy Joe Joe was with a boy of a different race than they were and walking around in a section of town where only Negroes lived. I was not aware of racial bias, prejudice or hatred of another due to the color of their skin. Until that day, to me, people were simply people. I knew there were obvious differences in people. In my young mind, some people were darker than others some were taller and some fatter. Men didn’t have chests that stuck out like women did and women didn’t have to shave. I had never known of anyone being angry at or hating someone because they were different. That was soon to change. Heading to town that summer day with the hot dust kicking up between my toes, my toughened, shoeless feet barely feeling the heat from the ground, I had only one thought in mind and that was to find some friends and have some fun. Summer didn’t last long enough and I knew I had to cram as much enjoyment in my time of liberation. As I walked into the downtown area, I noticed several young men standing in front of the local movie house. The marquee showed that a Roy Rogers and a Durango Kid movie would be on that day. I knew this would also include several cartoons and one or two Leon Errol comedies. My cost for attending a movie was nine cents. Occasionally I’d get lucky and I would get a quarter from dad and have a great time. The quarter would get me into the movie buy a bag of popcorn, a candy bar and a coke. This left me with a penny I would spend on a black licorice stick on the way home. The young men were horsing around with seemingly not much to do. I knew the movie wouldn’t start for at least another hour. I wondered who they were and where they were from. I’d never seen any of them before. As I walked by I could see they were muscular and dressed in worn, stained clothes. I walked by the men and into Mr. Horowitz’s store to say hello. I liked the old man and he always joked with me asking if I was ready to go back to the homeland. “We no longer have a nation to call our own.” He would say. “One day we will reclaim our land, you watch, young Cajun Jew.” I puzzled over these statements because, weren’t we already home? Mr. Horowitz stood staring at the young men and he had a slight frown on his face. I stood next to him for a short while. He didn’t speak right away and this puzzled me because he was always full of good will with something to say when I came by. Studying Mr. Horowitz’s face, I wondered at the strange expression I saw there. It was a mixture of fear, apprehension and disgust. Why he was focusing these emotions on the young rowdies didn’t make any sense to me. The men were loud, but they weren’t bothering anyone. “Who are those guys?” I asked. “Oil field workers. Louisiana Drilling Corporation has just found a big pool of oil south of here. I imagine this town will be filling up with all types of elements. So, my young friend how is my Cajun Jew today?” “I’m fine. If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Horowitz, why were you looking at those guys with such a funny expression on your face?” “Always with the questions. You ask why more than anyone I know. That’s good though, that’s the only way to learn. It was nothing I suppose. The young men, for some reason reminded me of others back in Germany who used to gather on the streets and act much the same. That didn’t turn out too good, especially for the Jews.” Mr. Horowitz explained. “What happened?” I asked, really curious. “The young men in Germany became the Brown Shirt group who eventually became Hitler’s gang of cutthroats.” I didn’t know much about this Hitler fellow, although I’d picked up bits and pieces listening to the older men hanging around the general store. I knew Hitler had something to do with the war that had just ended a few years ago. It seems I had heard more about a Jap guy named Tojo. “Was this Hitler a bad man?” I asked. “He, my young friend, was the devil. Because of him I am here in the United States alone. My wife and children are no longer alive because of that monster.” Seeing the look on Mr. Horowitz’s face, I stepped back. His expression held more anger than I in my short life had ever seen. Composing himself, Mr. Horowitz smiled at me. “Enough talk about trash. What are you about on this nice beautiful sunny day?” “Not much, gonna find some buddies to hang around with. Just fool around.” “Good, you enjoy yourself. Youth is fleeting and trouble comes much too soon. Well, I’ve got some new stock that just arrived. I guess I’d better get busy.” I left Mr. Horowitz to his work and headed toward Coon Town. As I expected to, I found Jimmy Joe Joe sitting in front of the old store on Peach Avenue. Some apple crates were scattered around in front of the old building and people in the neighborhood used the store as a gathering place to socialize and get caught up on the latest news. “Hey Levi, hows you be today?” Jimmy Joe Joe called out and waved to me, as I walked toward where he sat. His black face split in a huge grin revealing a large set of white teeth. I could tell he was happy to see me, as I was to see him. I walked over and sat on an empty crate. We chatted idly for a while enjoying the last of the morning’s coolness. In a short while the temperature began to rise. The May sun beat down on us and Jimmy Joe Joe started showing rings of sweat under his armpits and on his back. “Why don’t we get some sodas and moon pies and go out to the woods?” I asked. “Das a wonderment idea, Levi.” I gave him the small amount of coins I had in my pocket and Jimmy Joe Joe walked into the store and soon came back with the goodies. We headed for the small copse of trees on the western side of Turtle we called ‘the woods’. The entire area wasn’t more than an acre or two. In the middle of the woods was a small pond good for skinny-dipping and there were several Muscatine trees that provided nice snacks. Eating the grapes, I usually ended up with part of my face nearly as dark as Jimmy Joe Joe’s. The shortest route to the trees was straight through the middle of town. Jimmy Joe Joe and I talked and laughed as we made our way to our favorite hang out. “Hey, boy what the hell you doing hanging around that nigger bastard?” Hearing the voice I looked around to see who was doing the shouting. Walking toward us were the young men I had seen in front of the movie house. As I stood and watched, they came up to Jimmy Joe Joe and me. All four of them had cocky smirks on their faces. One of them got behind me and the others surrounded Jimmy Joe Joe. Looking into the sack Jimmy Joe Joe held the man asked. “What you got, nigger? Moon pies and orange soda? Hell, boy don’t you know that shit will rot your teeth?” The speaker laughed, throwing back his head and revealing he had apparently had quite a few sodas and moon pies. His teeth were brown and rotten. Jimmy Joe Joe started shivering. I was surprised to see his reaction to the young men. We had nothing to fear from these four. As I watched in wonder I saw Jimmy Joe Joe begin to sweat and his eyes got bigger and bigger. The one with the rotten teeth grabbed the bag out of Jimmy Joe Joe’s hands and began eating our moon pie. “Hey, what are you doing? Those are our moon pies. You can’t just take things from us!” I exclaimed, shocked to see such behavior. Things like this didn’t happen in Turtle. “Little nigger lover, I can do anything I want. Who’s going to stop me? Not you, you little shitty ass nigger lover. This dumb nigger ain’t gonna do nothing either, are you, boy?” “No, suh.” Said Jimmy Joe Joe. “Ya’ll sho can have all these moon pies and sodas. Wez don’t wants dems anyways, does we, Levi?” “I want them. Give me back my moon pies. You better watch out, I’ll get my dad on you.” I threatened. “Your dad? Shit, anyone who would raise a kid to hang around with niggers is an asshole anyway. I ain’t afraid of your dad.” Taking out the pies he began passing pieces around to his friends. Using an opener he had in his pocket he popped open the orange sodas and guzzled half of one. His friends hollered at him trying to get their share. The four began wrestling over the pies and sodas. Orange liquid squirted all over the four hoodlums. I stared at this scene in shock. I couldn’t believe anyone could be that cruel and uncaring. These guys had taken away our treats and instead of eating them they were splashing the sodas and smearing the pies all over each other. Looking over at Jimmy Joe Joe, I couldn’t believe he was simply standing there. He was twice as big as any of these thieves were. His arms were like tree branches. I had seen him pick up large heavy objects, others couldn’t move, seemingly effortlessly. “What you gonna do, nigger?” “Nothing suh.” Jimmy Joe Joe said. “I know you’re not gonna do anything, you’re just a lazy, stinking no account nigger. You should be working, hoeing, or plowing instead of walking around town carrying moon pies and sodas just like you was a real human being.” “I’m sorry suh.” Jimmy Joe Joe said. He was standing there shaking in fear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I had thought Jimmy Joe, Joe was my friend. Now I saw he didn’t care about me at all. He had let these fools take away our stuff and now he stood shivering while some skinny asshole called him names. “Less go, Levi.’ Jimmy Joe Joe said. I agreed, if he was just going to stand there and let this happen we may as well go on. As we began to go back the way we had come one of them pushed me back and two of them grabbed Jimmy Joe Joe. One of them hit Jimmy Joe Joe so hard I saw blood start to trickle down the side of his face. “You ain’t going nowhere till I say you can.” Their spokesman said. Forgetting how small I was, I let my anger erupt. I jumped on the back of the one who had taken our treats and began pulling his hair. The hoodlum whirled around trying to dislodge me. I felt more anger than I believed was possible. I was mad because these guys had taken our food and I was deeply hurt because my best friend in the world had let them rob us. I was shocked that they had hurt Jimmy Joe Joe and now I was going to hurt them. I yanked out handfuls of greasy hair and screamed at the top of my voice. The man whose back I was riding, while I pulled at his dirty stinking hair, began spinning around and reaching back for me. His three friends stood watching and laughing at him as we whirled around. In one angry effort he grabbed me by my shirt and flipped me violently off of his back and onto the asphalt road. As I was thrown I managed to get a handful of his tee shirt causing it to rip completely off of him. As I flew through the air I saw he had a giant eagle tattooed on his back. I hit the street with a loud thud, flat on my back. The landing knocked the wind out of me and I lay gasping for breath and crying. The back of my head was throbbing and I felt as though I had a bale of cotton on my chest. I tried to stand but could only get to my knees, so I crawled off of the road on all fours. Back on the grassy area I reached around and touched my head and pain shot through me and I felt nauseous. Looking at my hand I saw blood. As I swayed on my knees I heard laughter from the four idiots. They were shoving each other around and laughing and teasing the shirtless one, who had given me a ride. Standing I staggered back to the four fools and balling my fist I tried to slug one of them. Casually, as one might swat a fly, he slapped me so hard I was sent spinning. Once again I hit the ground in pain. Now, blood poured from my nose, as well as the back of my head. As I lay on the ground attempting to rise, I heard a sound that reminded me of a lion’s roar, like the ones I had heard in Tarzan’s movies. The surprise of hearing that sound cleared my head and shot adrenaline through me giving me the strength to sit up. My friend, who I had quickly lost faith in, had two of the men in his hands and was bashing their heads together. The loud twonk sound of their heads hitting together made the same noise as when we threw watermelons to the ground to cause them to break open so we could reach in and get some of the sweet red meat. The two young men were like rag dolls in Jimmy Joe Joe’s hands. As he continued to batter them, the other two jumped on Jimmy Joe Joe and tried to rescue their partners in crime from the wild, out of control man. Jimmy Joe Joe threw the two he was holding to the ground and turned on his other tormentors. One man he simply picked up and threw at least ten feet. The other took to his heels. Realizing he had no more trash to dispose of, Jimmy Joe Joe ran to me to see if I was okay. Kneeling by me he gently sat me up and with his huge gentle hand began wiping the blood from my face. As I looked at my friend I saw tears cutting through the blood and dust on his large ugly-beautiful face. “Is you okay, Levi? Does you need to go see the doctu?” My head was still ringing and I found I was unable to respond. A loud snapping sound was added to the ringing in my head. Hearing that, I thought fleetingly I must have something badly broken in my skull, ringing and snapping sounds and of course more pain filled my wounded skull. As I tried to answer Jimmy Joe Joe I saw his face change from a look of concern to surprise. He looked straight at me and his already large eyes opened even wider. On his face was a look of bewilderment. The look was quickly replaced with a grimace of pain. Turning he looked to where the three remaining roughnecks had been lying. My eyes followed his and I saw a puff of smoke come out of one of the shirtless man’s hands. I wondered how in the world he could be doing that, making smoke come out of his hand. As the men turned and ran I saw the eagle tattoo again, on the back of the man who emitted smoke from his hand. I heard a grunt from my friend and turning I saw blood pouring from his huge chest. Galvanized by the sight of my friend bleeding, I jumped to my feet. Forgotten were my aches and pains, concern for Jimmy Joe Joe overrode my bruised back and bleeding, ringing head. Forgotten was my bloody nose. As I moved to Jimmy Joe Joe he swayed then fell, reminding me of a large tree my dad had once chopped down for firewood. Jimmy Joe Joe fell forward slowly, like the slow motion I saw in the movies. I didn’t know that was what the action was called, but now as I recall that day, that’s how the large body of my friend moved, then he hit the ground with a loud thump. Looking down at him I saw blood pouring out of his back. I screamed for help and kneeling I tried to roll Jimmy Joe Joe over. Blood covered the front of his shirt and I watched it pour into the hot dusty ground and disappear, I knew even in my young mind, along with my friend’s blood, my innocence was also being soaked up by the hot Louisiana soil, forever. Someone, I don’t know who, pulled my arms away from my friend’s body. I fought whoever it was but I was weak from my wounds, and I never was a very strong child. The four murderers vanished from Turtle and they were never found. Jimmy Joe, Joe was buried in the small cemetery close to where he had lived. As for me, I became something different. BUY NOW  ;void(0)) By: Lionel A. LaVergne Chapter one Three A.M. The time when the body and soul are at their lowest ebb. When armies attack, babies awake, crying, and the Beast feeds. The Beast looked down at his latest victim. He stood over the corpse, blood smeared on his face and dripping from his mouth, mixed with saliva and onto the torn body lying at his feet. The last shudder of his climax shook the Beast. For a few seconds, a deep feeling of lassitude overcame his senses. Shaking away the after effect, the Beast slowly walked away. Chapter two Detective Joe Bihm walked into police headquarters on Reisner Street, making his way to his desk. He sat and opened the bag containing his usual healthful breakfast of doughnuts. As he munched on the sweet pastry he thought how good a cigarette would taste right then. Tree hugging left wing wackos, in cahoots with do gooder assholes, had taken away his right to pollute his own lungs. Sipping his Luke warm coffee and looking around his ‘office’, he saw he was the only officer in the room. “Oh shit,” he thought. “Did I forget another damn meeting?” Searching the surface of his amazingly messy desk, he found nothing concerning a meeting today. No memo. No note. Rising, he walked to the back of the room and into the hall that led to the area usually used for briefings. Here, he and his fellow crusaders against crime, where brought up to date on current killings. Joe had been in homicide for seven years. Except for the last two years, he had the top clearance rate of any of the detectives in this assignment. Thirteen years in the Houston Police Department, Joe had risen from patrolman to homicide detective quickly. Lately, Joe had lain awake reflecting on his life, his career, and his loss. Walking into the large meeting room Joe spotted his partner, Max Boswell. Max stood with four or five other officers. As Joe neared the group, Max turned to him and began talking. “He did it again.” “Who did what?” Joe asked. “The bastard we’ve been trying to nail, the one who eats parts of his victims, after he kills them, the Beast.” explained Billy. “Oh, that guy.” Joe said, showing little interest. Tom McLemore, who looked like he had just stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine, wrinkled his nose, as though he’d smelled something rotten. Turning to his partner, McLemore yanked his head to one side indicating, ‘follow me’. McLemore’s partner, a notorious ass kisser named Robert D. Towns III, hurried to catch up with his partner, hero, and object of near worship. The two when seen side- by-side, always prompted remarks such as ‘Mutt and Jeff’. McLemore was tall and slim, with a full head of perfectly coiffed hair. His dress was impeccable at all times. Suits hung on his body so perfectly, Joe had once remarked, that bastard, I bet that’ s really his skin. Towns was the exact opposite of the perfect McLemore. Town’s nose was large and had hair growing from it at different angles. His face was shaped like a bowling ball with wild unruly hair around the edges and he was already getting bald on top. His round figure caused him to look shorter, than his five foot seven inch height. He always looked rumpled. He could ruin the look of a thousand dollar hand made suit. As the two walked out of the room, Bihm finished his doughnut and turned to his partner. “What’s on for today?” he asked. “I’m taking Jim here on a circuit.” Max answered. “Yeah, you mean, we’re taking him?” “No, I’m taking him, you’re going to see Captain Martin. Didn’t you see the note I left on your desk?” “What note, hell, you know I can’t find shit on my desk.” “It was taped to the top of your typewriter, didn’t you see it? Jesus Joe, you were supposed to be in his office, umm, ten minutes ago.” Bihm glanced down at his own watch. The time was eight twenty five. “What does he want, do you know?” he asked Boswell. “Probably gonna suspend your sorry ass. Move your tail, man. You’re skating on thin ice already. You don’t need anymore static from the brass.” Shrugging his wide shoulders Bihm shuffled off, making his way to Martin’s office. As he approached the desk, he eyed Captain Martin’s secretary, the beautiful, mocha colored heart breaker, Clarissa Dooms. “Before I go in to hear I’m fired, would you marry me?” asked Joe. “Just what I need, an unemployed burnt out ex policeman. Ask me again when you make Captain,” joked Clarissa. “What’s on our esteemed leader’s mind this morning?” Smiling, Clarissa lowered her voice, bending close to Joe, “Did someone actually discover a mind in that hard, opinionated, one track skull? I don’t think so. You better get your butt in there; he’s got some big dogs with him. Don’t want to keep the elite of Houston waiting.” Bihm wondered what she meant. What elite? Why would the captain want to see him, especially with some of Houston’s finer citizens there? At least, he could be fairly certain, today wouldn’t be his last on the force. The last two years he knew he had been sleepwalking his cases. Expecting his next assignment would be ‘cold crimes’ or worse, he had waited for the axe to fall. He knocked on the door and heard the command, “come.” Opening the door, he surveyed the room. Captain Martin was not behind his large expensive desk. He was seated, along with two other people, in front of the desk. Even before he recognized the Captain’s visitors he knew they were very important. Captain Martin loved to sit in his large stuffed leather chair, lording over his minions. Bihm stood and waited. Seeing the Mayor’s wife, a lovely, slim lady, who looked twenty years younger than her age, and the Mayor Pro Tem, he knew this was important. Jerri Deavers, Mayor Deaver’s wife of thirty-five years, was loved by most of Houston. A fine, cultivated lady, she constantly worked for the betterment of the citizenry. Pictures in the local rag showed her nailing boards on houses. And with sleeves rolled up, handing out meals in the missions. She devoted a large portion of her time seeing that as many people as possible had the essentials of life. The amazing part was, she really did these things, not just for photo-ops. Her heart was as large as her husband’s belly. Mayor Deavers was in the first year of his second term. His re-election, all the pundits said, was credited to his wife. Jerri Deavers was a remarkable woman. Bihm had almost made her acquaintance back when her husband was merely a rich landowner and contractor. In Joe’s first year in homicide, he had been assigned to a murder in the third ward. An unspoken understanding, even among black officers, you did not bust your butt over another killing among thieves, dopers, and other undesirable types. Joe, too new, too young, and too on fire, had solved the murder. He had worked on his own time scouring the dirty streets. After closing that case he had received a phone call from Jerri Deavers. The elderly lady who had been murdered had worked for Mrs. Deaver’s family for years. Jerri had loved the kind lady who had mostly raised her. The Morton’s, Jerri's parents were jet setters, wealthy and prone to flying to Paris on a moments notice. They would hop into their private Lear and go to a favorite restaurant for a meal. Mel Morton had been one of the wealthiest of many wealthy denizens living in the exclusive area with palatial palaces known as River Oaks. The year Jerri graduated from University of Texas, in Austin, her parent’s had pleaded she attend some place more prestigious, but she wanted UT, her parents died in a crash. They had flown to one of their obscenely wealthy friends mansion on Jekyl Island, off the coast of Georgia. Their plane made an unscheduled stop, into the Atlantic. Many wondered why Jerri Morton was essentially dried eyed at their memorial. No bodies were found, so expensive, empty coffins were placed in the family vault. Bihm had answered the phone in his small house in the Alief area. “Officer Joe Bihm?” a female voice had enquired “Yes.” Joe answered. "This is Jerri Deavers.” “Yes ma’am.” Joe had replied, stunned. “I want to personally thank you for your fine work. Jenny Blouser was a dear lady. A friend I loved very much.” “Uh, yes, Ma’am.” “If ever I can be of any assistance, please let me know.” “Yes ma’am.” Putting down the phone, Joe was numb. His wife seeing his expression asked, “Was that the President, dear?” “Better than that, Jerri Deavers.” answered Joe, wonder on his face. “Jerri Deavers, Maxwell Deaver’s wife, the rich guy? Bullshit, who was it, really?” “I’m not kidding you, she thanked me for solving the murder of that old, black lady, Jenny Blouser.” Joe explained. “Why, why should she care about an old black lady?” wondered Tilly, Joe’s wife. “I don’t know, she said the lady was her friend and that she loved her.” “Strange. I know she’s always doing her charity work all over town, but does she really care for old black people that much?” “I don’t know,” said the still stunned Joe. BUY NOW Book Titles Available | | The BANYON NETWORK | Betty Byers | Whitlow Synopsis | INNER-VIEWS WITH CELEBRITIES | ECLECTIC REVIEWS | BOOK REVIEWER'S CORNER | The NEWS | SHORT STORIES CORNER | | Return Home | GREAT LINKS | WHAT'S NEW? | CONTACT US | |
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