Once Upon A Crime

CHAPTER ONE

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31st

Crouching in the back, Penny Grimes heard the driver. Ah, tasty. A coupla young ones right there.

She felt the car slow as the window wound down.

Whoa, ladies, those are killer costumes. I had to stop because you both could be Lady Gaga. You guys would be stars at the costume party I’m going to in River Oaks. Hop in. Beyonce’s gonna be there.

Grimes rolled her eyes when she heard laughter.

No, I’m serious, he said. Beyonce will be there.

She heard the unmistakable voice of a young female. Get lost, you creep, before we call nine-one-one.

Aw fuck you, you stuck-up bitches, the driver yelled.

That did it. Grimes guided the needle into the side of his neck. In less than a minute, his head lolled to the right. Grabbing a handful of hair, she dragged him across the seat. Climbing over, she dropped in behind the wheel.

A half-hour later . . .

What are you doing? Where am I? he asked as she slipped a harness over his head, buckling it tight across his chest.

Grimes didn’t answer, watching sardonically as he squirmed and tugged against bindings holding him against the tree. She yawned.

Okay. She reached up and pulled on a dangling rope connected to a pulley overhead.

What are you doing? Wilbur Stewart asked as she clipped the rope to the harness. Let me go, he yelled, tugging on the restraints. You can’t do this.

I can and I am, she said, removing a length of rope fashioned into a noose from her jacket pocket.

You can’t hang me.

Hush. It won’t be much longer. Grimes looped the rope over his forehead and secured it around the tree.

Much longer for what?

She didn’t answer.

Stop it! You can’t do this, he yelled, wiggling and struggling against the bindings.

Yeah, yeah, she said, picking up a machete. Lady Gaga and Beyonce. How original.

No. Stop. Wait. I’ll pay you.

Nuh-uh.

Wait. Why are you doing this?

Why? You fondled a thirteen-year-old girl. The jury found you not guilty. Apparently, they thought she lied. You and I know differently, don’t we?

I was innocent.

Nope, not innocent. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict you. Okay. Time to get down to the nitty-gritty.

Three minutes later, with the machete hanging by her side, Grimes admired her handiwork, holding his severed head up by the hair. It was like the rush she had gotten that time from bungee jumping.

Grimes approached the now skittish horse, murmuring gentling words as she felt for the muscle in its neck. The thirteen-hands-high horse snorted as she jabbed the syringe containing Rompun into the muscle. No more than two minutes passed before the terrified whites of its eyes were veiled by drooping lids, and it let out a comforted sigh.

It was a good thing Stewart was a lightweight even though she was used to lifting heavy items during her day job. Grimes raised him high enough using the pulley system and then mounted it onto the saddle. She secured the body using nylon ropes and a back brace so it stayed upright and in the saddle.

Taking a safety pin from her jeans pocket, Grimes pinned the poem she had written earlier to his pant leg. All done, she stepped back and admired her project. Perfect.

At eight minutes before nine, Grimes led the horse to a nearby city street. This is what trick or treating at your age got you.

She whacked the horse on its hindquarter and yelled, Ya.

It took off, trotting down the road leading into a cluster of homes. As soon as a driver or treat or treaters saw the pony with him mounted on it, there’d be a heavy infusion of cops, K-9 dogs, and whatever else.

Grimes whistled the tune of Takin Care of Business and even danced a few steps to the beat in her head as she returned to the clearing and the tree. She collected her tools and equipment then ran through a mental checklist to ensure she hadn’t inadvertently forgotten some detail. Don’t want the cops coming knocking, she said.

Before going home, the gloved woman placed the severed head on the driver’s seat of Stewart’s parked car, then wiped the interior with a Clorox cloth. That ought to take care of everything.

An hour later, at home, Grimes stripped down, tossed the clothes in the washing machine, then took a hot shower. Clean and dry, she fixed herself a scotch and water and propped her feet up on the coffee table. Using a printout she had made from the Fiction Writers website, the woman began planning her second project. The tale about the dentist was particularly intriguing since it reminded her of the one who got away. Penny Grimes would even the score with him another day.

CHAPTER TWO

Detective Madison Chase pushed the car door open and slid out. When she spotted the headless body mounted on a horse, her face paled and her mouth gaped open like a fish on a hook. Oh shit!

Chase felt herself go cold. The horror mounted on a horse made all the gruesome evidence she’d seen afflicted by killers seem almost pedestrian. This was a new kind of madness. She shook off her revulsion and concentrated on finding facts; that’s how she would catch this monster.

Feeling a tap on her shoulder, Chase turned and looked into the head-shaking face of her partner, Terry Wise. Hey.

Just got here. He stopped dead in his tracks. Jesus Christ, can you believe this?

Yep. Somebody just brought an old story to life.

She and Wise trudged over to where members of the evidence team were snapping pictures of the body and the animal. How the hell did the killer get him up on that horse? she wondered. She ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. A young officer approached with a clipboard. She pulled her jacket back to show her badge.

Name and badge number, he said.

Chase. Badge number 134.

He recorded her name and badge number on the clipboard.

Wise did the same.

When they got closer to the horse, one of the uniformed officers griped, This is somebody’s sick joke.

Sick, yeah. Joke, no, Chase told the officer as she eyeballed the mutilated body. See what you can find out from the uniforms.

While Wise was gathering information from uniformed officers, Chase noticed a piece of paper pinned to the right leg of the corpse. She snapped on a pair of gloves and got ready to unpin it. Has a picture been taken of this?

One of the evidence collectors looked over as he finished snapping close-ups of the saddle. Yep. It’s a poem. Kind of silly if you ask me.

She disconnected the paper from the pant leg, then read the typed note.

Come, my friends, and hear my tale,

Of the headless horseman riding his trail,

Up and down the streets he roamed,

Hunting for children to make his own.

But on this night he met his fate

And rode to hell with an empty plate.

If the vic is a perv, he won’t be molesting kids anymore, Chase muttered as she filled out the tag on an evidence bag before securing the poem inside.

Another man dressed in street clothes walked up and pointed at the evidence bag. What’s that?

The man was her dark-skinned supervisor, Sergeant James Tolliver. Whatcha got?

The last ride of Chester the molester? Chase passed the bag to him. Seems our killer thinks he’s the second coming of Washington Irving.

That… or Stephen King, Tolliver said after reading it.

I don’t think King writes poems, but if he did, I’d bet he would love this one.

One thing’s for damn sure. There’ll be a helluva lot of media interest in this one.

Figured as much.

Has anyone found the severed head?

Not that I know. Chase watched as the ME’s team removed the victim from the saddle and laid it on a gurney. When the victim’s wallet was removed, Chase checked it for ID. Inside was a driver’s license and credit cards, a social security card, insurance papers, photos, and cash. Robert James Stewart. Age forty-seven. Gives his address as 1671 Aspen Circle, Haltom City.

Interesting how he ended up over here since Haltom City’s up on the north side, Tolliver mused.

I doubt he was out trick or treating. An educated guess based on the poem would be that he was a pedophile on the hunt. I’ll run his name through the sex offender database when I get back to my car.

Flipping open a small notepad, Chase jotted down information from the license. Then she secured the wallet and license in two separate evidence bags and filled out the form for each. Determining who owned the horse was next up. Once that was done, a whole range of possible leads would open up.

She went up to the uniformed sergeant. Do we know who Trigger belongs to?

Nope. Animal Control has a method to ID it. They ought to be here pretty soon.

Fine. Have you guys come up with any witnesses?

The sergeant pointed at a dark-skinned man standing by a patrol car. Bernard Appleton. He checked his notepad and pointed to the west. Said he saw the horse walking up from that direction. He thought the rider was playing a joke.

Not so funny now, she mumbled, heading for Appleton. As she approached him, Chase noted the man slowly shaking his head. His arms folded over his chest.

Mr. Appleton, I’m Detective Chase. I understand you spotted the horse. Where did you first see it coming from?

Appleton pointed in the same direction as the officer had. Didn’t pay much attention to it, being that it’s Halloween. I figured some clown had dressed as that character from the movie. I never thought it was a real headless rider until I saw it up close.

Yeah, well, it’s not something one would usually see coming down the streets of Ft. Worth. Did you see anyone with it or close by?

Nope. He shook his head. Didn’t really look for anybody. I just kept my eyes on that horse.

We’ll need a written statement from you.

Done already. He nodded at a uniformed officer standing near the yellow tape. Gave it to him.

Chase scanned the growing crowd gathered at the yellow crime scene tape, looking for anyone acting strange. She knew some perpetrators often mingled with the crowd at a crime scene to watch the police figure out how it happened and who did it. No one stood out to her.

A city-owned pickup truck, towing a horse trailer, parked by the crime scene tape. Two guys in coveralls got out. They went up to the closest uniform, who directed them to Chase. Both stopped dead in their tracks as soon as they saw the uncovered headless body on the gurney.

Holy fucking shit, the skinny guy said. Is that for real?

Yeah, Chase said. You guys have a way of identifying the horse? I need to know who owns it.

Yeah, I bet, the skinny one said. Lex, go get that reader from the locker. He stared at the body. Who the hell did he piss off?

Don’t know yet.

Betcha it was his old lady.

Anybody’s guess at this point.

Well, if it was, I sure as hell don’t wanna cross paths with her.

It’s doubtful a woman did that, Chase said, looking at the gurney. Not alone, anyway.

You ain’t married, are you?

Was.

Yeah, well, I’m going to enlighten you on something. But then you know this, you being a woman and all. When a woman gets mad enough—I mean like super pissed—I’m telling you, she can leap tall buildings in a single bound and bend steel with her fucking teeth.

Chase smiled at the man’s comment. You know that from personal experience?

Sorta.

Chase started to walk away. Listen, I’ve got to interview witnesses. Why don’t you two find out who the owner of that horse is, then let me know. She headed for the ME’s van where the attendants were preparing to load the gurney. She lifted the covering sheet to get a closer look at the neck. No obvious jagged edges. It appeared to be a smooth cut. Probably done with a large hunting knife.

A uniformed officer approached Chase. You the lead detective?

Unfortunately. Chase was trying to wrap her head around why someone felt the need to do something so horrid even if the guy was a child predator. Whatcha got?

Some members of the media want to speak to you.

Not me, she said. Pointing at Sergeant Tolliver, she told him. He’s most senior here. Tolliver better not call her over. He knew how much she hated answering inane questions from the media. Saying No comment over and over to a bunch of stupid questions was a waste of time. She had a murder case to solve. The most gruesome one she’d ever worked.

CHAPTER THREE

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1st

Madison’s ex-husband, Don Wilson sat in a booth at his favorite breakfast hangout, Russo’s Diner, enjoying a plate of fried eggs and ham when a news broadcast caught his attention. The announcer told of a horse found wandering residential streets in northwest Fort Worth with the headless body of an unknown male mounted on it.

Bet Maddie’s working that case and Emily’s home with some pimply-faced high schooler. In his mind’s eye, he saw Maddie going door-to-door late at night, asking if anyone saw anything or knew the dead guy.

A server stopped at his table with a pot of coffee. That’s so horrible, she said, watching the TV. Whoever did that is sick. They oughta have their own head chopped off.

If the cops ever catch the killer, he’ll probably get a slap on the wrist.

I doubt that. The server walked on to the next table after refilling his cup.

An overweight, balding man stopped by the table to listen to the news report. He nodded at the TV. What the hell is the world coming to?

Good question. I’ve been asking that one for a long time.

Sipping his coffee, Wilson watched the news story as it shifted to a cul-de-sac scene with a number of police. A familiar face struck a chord with him when the TV camera crew zoomed in on the blonde thirty-four-year-old woman detective. Figures, he said, setting the cup down. Wonder who’s minding our daughter while she’s out playing detective?

He mopped up the last remnants of egg yolk from the plate with a piece of toast before gulping the coffee. He gave the news broadcast one last look when the reporter requested anyone with any information about the incident to contact the Fort Worth police. Betcha there’s gonna be a hellacious-sized reward for that killer. All it’ll do is bring out the quacks out of the woodwork, all claiming to have earth-shattering information about the killer.

He started to wipe his mouth but stopped when the news camera showed Chase reading a piece of paper. Wilson snorted. Must be instructions telling her what to do next. He dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin, dropped it on the plate, and picked up the check.

***

At 9 AM on Monday, Grimes was seated on a hard wooden bench directly behind the prosecutor’s table in the 372nd District Court. The courtroom was packed with a smorgasbord of murderers, robbers, thieves, druggies, and sex perverts.

She watched lawyers scurry around reading the DA’s case files, persuading their clients to accept a plea deal, or locked in negotiations with one of the court’s prosecutors. As the arraignment of defendants commenced, she was unsure what to do for an encore after the Halloween episode. Although the conscience warned to call it off before a mistake ended with a life sentence in prison, the brain was asking, ‘Who’s next?’

Grimes liked to think of the courtroom visits as window shopping, except she wasn’t at the mall looking for a new wardrobe. It was about hunting for a new project, and there were quite a few possibilities that day: burglars, thieves, drug dealers, and even a couple of guys indicted for murder.

But the one who garnered the most attention was the attempted rapist. He was a middle-aged man dressed in a short-sleeved tropical shirt and tan chinos. He was short, with a shaved head and a thick black and silver beard.

Leaning forward on the railing, Grimes strained to hear what the young prosecutor told the defense attorney about the rape case. From what she overheard, the rapist had broken into a house late at night and tied his victim up, threatening her with a knife. His client had stripped her clothes off and begun raping her when her husband came home.

It was close to laughable when the defense attorney tried to persuade the prosecutor into agreeing to a low bond, telling him the rapist wasn’t a flight risk or a danger to the public. Seriously? Give me a break.

Grimes sat back as the judge heard the bail arguments from both sides. The prosecutor wanted it set high, citing the nature of the crime. The defense, as expected, lowballed the rapist’s danger, emphasizing that his client lived in Fort Worth all his life. Guess the crime didn’t matter, she told herself. Grimes shook her head in disbelief when she heard the judge set it at fifty thousand dollars. Why don’t you give him one of those PR bonds so he won’t be inconvenienced, judge?

Doing the math, she figured the rapist would have to come up with at least five thousand cash or property worth that much to get out of jail. If you wanted sex that bad, asshole, you should’ve paid for a whore. The man’s name was committed to memory right alongside a certain dentist until he made bail.

A commotion diverted attention to a Hispanic guy yelling a string of profanities at his attorney. The judge banged his gavel four times.

Way to go, dumbass, Grimes thought. That outburst ought to land you in a jail cell.

If you act out like that again, the judge warned the guy. I’ll hold you in contempt. Do you understand?

Yeah.

I don’t think you do. Perhaps I will direct the prosecutor to add another charge. Hindering proceedings by disorderly conduct. Do you understand now?

Discussions between prosecutors and defense attorneys and the chatter of the spectators prevented Grimes from hearing much more than that.

Order in the court, he yelled to the court crowd as he banged his gavel. If you want to have a discussion, take it outside. If I hear any more from anyone but officers of the court, I’ll have the bailiff remove you from my courtroom.

With the hushed crowd, Grimes heard more of the Hispanic guy’s proceedings in front of the judge.

Are you Enrique Hernandez? the judge asked.

The indictment charges you with indecency with a child. Do you understand the nature of that charge?

Yes, sir.

Has your attorney explained that the range of punishment if convicted is from two years to ten years in the Institutional Division of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice?

Yes, sir.

Hernandez’ attorney, the prosecutor, and the judge held a whispered discussion that Grimes could not hear.

Since this is your first time in court and upon the recommendation of both attorneys, I will reluctantly agree to allow you a personal recognizance bond. The judge pointed at a side table. Talk to the people at that table.

No wonder sex crimes are up, Grimes thought, recalling a newspaper article about the uptick—275 forcible sex crimes from July to September.

The judge banged the gavel. Next case.

Grimes jotted the name down as the bailiffs escorted the young man to a side table where a man and a woman were waiting. Hernandez seemed to listen to them then, and, with his attorney’s help, completed some forms. Once Hernandez finished completing the forms, he was released. He left the courtroom at the same time she did.

Grimes pretended to be a kind-hearted soul by pushing the door open for Hernandez. That gave her a good close-up look at his earring and the stud in his nose. Wonder what you’d look like if I ripped them out. They rode the same elevator down to the first floor, although Hernandez failed to notice the scowl Grimes cast his way.

Being that Hernandez was a common name and that any chance of finding this pervert later on was slim to none, she followed him. She boarded the same bus as Hernandez, hoping to find out where the guy lived or worked.

Grimes tailed him to an address a few blocks from the stockyards. A notation of the address was made after Hernandez went inside. She considered knocking on the door of a neighbor’s house. Wonder if they know Hernandez?

Grimes fished out the cop badge she had appropriated a while back. Eyeballing first the neighbor then the house where Hernandez went, Grimes slid the badge back in her pocket, fearing that the neighbor might alert her next project. If Hernandez was forewarned, it would spoil the surprise coming his way.

Based on the time needed to make the preparations, she left. Enrique Hernandez had a couple of nights left before he had a come-to-Jesus meeting—one that definitely wouldn’t end well for him.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3rd

Chase slapped at the clanging alarm clock but the loud noise continued. A second slap got the same result. Her eyes popped open. Not seeing it on the side table, she raised up on one elbow.

She panned a small area by the side of the bed. Where is it?

Her four-year-old daughter, Emily, stood a few feet away holding the clock. Her blue eyes crinkled as she laughed.

Chase held her hand out. Give Mommy the clock, sweetheart. Emily was playing a game, so she wouldn’t chastise her, but the alarm was annoying.

Emily jerked the clock away.

C’mon, sweetheart. Give it to Mommy.

No. Emily took off, running for the door and giggling the whole way.

Chase jumped out of bed and chased after her, taking baby steps to avoid catching Emily too soon. Mommy is coming after you, she teased.

Emily glanced back once too many times as she ran smack into the door frame. She fell backward. Her screaming overrode the sound of the clanging clock.

Chase whisked her off the floor. It’s okay, sweetheart, she said softly. Chase sat on the bed and set Emily on her lap. She examined her daughter’s forehead but saw no sign of bleeding or any cuts or scrapes. Only the pinkish mark where Emily had struck the door frame.

Shhh, honey. Mommy’s here. It’ll be all right. Chase dabbed the tears from her daughter’s cheek with a finger. Just a little bump, honey.

Still crying, Emily buried her face into her mother’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around Chase’s neck.

How about we go to the kitchen? Chase suggested, bending down to shut off the alarm. And Mommy fixes you a nice cup of warm chocolate milk? It’s your favorite.

Okay. Emily’s crying began to slow and stop, but she kept her arms tight around