Cleansing Jane Doe

Here's another start of a novel. Let me know what you think. I'd say steer clear of the kids on this one.

Ch. 1

"Brass monkey...that funky monkey," chimed in my pocket, and as I unsheathed the glowing, vibrating music box I answered.

"Talk to me buddy." I said.

"Forrest Creek Estates! Another one. Finish your beer, kiss the lady across the table from you goodnight, grab your case, and a cab and get down here. 5300 block of Suncreek Court," a familiar voice barked at me.

I hung up, finished my beer and glanced at myself in the mirror behind the Top Shelf liquor. I was tired. I closed out my tab, blew Veronica, the bartender, a kiss and hit the pavement. I walked the three blocks from 'The Salty Dawg Tavern' to my apartment, slipped in the door, raced up the two flights of stairs and through my door, #250. It's not in my nature to rush and to say crime scenes are a part of my routine is an understatement. Five maybe six days of the week I position myself inches from a lost life, sprays of blood, murder weapons, crying relatives, and the Plano PD. 

Mulder barked with a full strength lunged yelp and lifted his head from his corner; he knew I had a gig. That yelp, mixed with the three high whines that followed told me he was worried and missed me.

"I know buddy. I miss you too! I'll be alright. It's going to be an early night," I told him. Mulder, obviously my dog, and a deep seated reference to the X-Files was a stubborn but affectionate full breed bloodhound. He was my roommate, who at times was more human than I was. I changed my clothes, grabbed my case, scooter keys, and helmet and dashed out the door. I decided to avoid the hoopla of getting an Uber or a cab as 8:20pm it'd be murder. I'd forgotten something!

Traffic wasn't too terrible and I arrived at the Westside of Plano in 24 minutes flat. Unloaded my weapon, Nikon D750 SLR, and got to work.

I looked through the viewfinder and carefully focused the camera on the broken drivers side window (FLASH, SNAP, SNAP). I briefly scanned the area, as to not hinder the investigation in progress, and in the incandescent glow of the LED porch lights, under the front driver's side tire glaring up at me was a heavily oxidized orange and brown iron pipe and a small puddle of blood (SNAP). That puddle led to a few small shards of glass (FLASH), a small recently dried stream of blood (SNAP, SNAP) drizzled amidst the silver paint up the driver's side door (SNAP) to the roof (SNAP, SNAP) and low and behold a partial bloody handprint.

 'Nice,' (FLASH, SNAP) I mumbled to myself. 

'An Audi?' I smirked. The traditional rich white woman's BMW. It was parked at an angle, how cocky, towards the middle of the driveway. I wonder if she's single and looking for a knight in shining armor to save her. I mused down the lens of my camera.

5307 Suncreek Court, that'd be an easy one to remember(SNAP, SNAP). My seventh grade math teacher was named Ms. Sunny Creek. Have to make sure I get every angle of this parked car, street and all. She was definitely one of the ones my class would never forget. Always wore the perfect tight tops, getting the rear tires and tail light, fitted bra, skirts were always a little making sure I’m not hitting my reflection in the side mirrors, and look at you on the brick and door of the garage, too high, but low enough to keep our pubescent imaginations guessing what lies at the top another half bloody hand print of the thigh high tights and a heather gray high heel pump left behind and I know not deliberately. Anyway….besides that, this is Forrest Creek Estates, in the thick of Plano, the houses mostly belong to the police officers, firefighters, their spouses with money, and the Donald Trump voting 'white-folk' Republicans; the higher echelon if you believe that. This particular stretch has even been called by the New York Times 'an insular, Leave It to Beaver world where white people can live out entire lives without ever getting to know a black person, where people rarely venture beyond understood borders." This all goes to say that Dallas has crime, but this is Plano, crime doesn't happen in Plano, and definitely not in this neighborhood. What can I say, I'm full of useless information.

Back to looking through the viewfinder, it's what I do best. It's my weapon, my shield.

I took a deep breath, moved three steps closer. 

Ripped stocking? Maybe a sock? Backup Mertz you don’t know what you're shooting today. 

A sudden fear filled my entire constitution. The hairs at the back of my neck stood on end and all the blood from my face slowly left. Something felt familiar, but as I glanced at my reflection in the rear window, catching the sweat now falling, I couldn't think clearly enough to figure out from where.  I couldn’t yell, I couldn’t even think... I had to snap. (SNAP. SNAP. FLASH. SNAP.) Photo after photo, its my protection, its my saving grace, my eternal memory. 

Inside I screamed as a flashback took over. “They were kids dammit!” it's a thought that rings in my brain at the beckon call of the Plano PD. 

This is probably a great spot to give you some exposition, a little background into what makes me tick. So let me fill you in.

Photography is such a broad topic to concern oneself with. I could've been a journalist, a wedding, sports, or even one of those Bordeaux, make a momma blush photographers, Unfortunately for me, my mother died when I was in the third grade, and being surrounded daily by police officers who were investigating her mysterious death, I had convinced myself and my friends that we wanted to be police officers. The problem was, try as hard as I could, I couldn't bring myself to use a gun. Well, shoot a gun. I just couldn't master it. After my third go at the academy and three ex-girlfriends later I realized I had a gift for photography and enrolled in the photography classes at a local community college, and because of that, it all goes back to my first crime scene. I can still taste the crunched Nacho Cheese Doritos I scoffed moments before I entered that fucking death cell. Detective Lance Skurlig (hang out with me I'll give you details on him in a minute because it's all about who you know, not what you know) called me that night, got clearance, and I entered that coffin of a bathroom. Blood dripping down the dollar store brand plastic shower curtain, “haha,” fucking Teddy Bears. There in the tub, two children's bodies, covered from head to toe in blood. There was a woman's body crouched in a praying position at the edge of a bed, with several bullet holes and a missing skirt. The stench of iron, body odor, and cheap after shave, welled in my nasal cavity and I felt the gurgling bile in my throat, rushed out, and puked in an azalea bush. I knew Doritos would never taste the same, and as I rushed back in snapping everything I could see in the viewfinder from bloody boot prints to puddles of blood leading back to the bathroom, bullet casings, holes in the wall, and a phone off the hook, I knew I'd found my calling. I resort back to my thoughts from time to time when the harrowing blue glow lights, and slight vibration alerts me to glance at my phone “one more picture, one more picture,” and it might destroy any sense of humanity that I might have, blinding me to the horror. And yet, still, I rush back in with only the best of consciousness “Gotta get that picture Mertz!”

So with that humanizing background, allow me to introduce myself, I am Mertzon Sandhill, veteran Crime Scene Photographer, guilty as charged.  I’ve been in and out of the worst crime scenes for the last fifteen years in the heart of and surrounding boroughs of Dallas. Most of my cases as of late find me in the upper echelon of Plano. I'm a gentleman in a world of manic depressed, egocentric, bodybuilding, wife beating, abusive pricks that share my gender. I’d even go as far to say I’m a bit of a professional, down to the plastic suit, gloves, and occasional face shield or cloth mouth covering I wear. 'Shit! I knew I forgot something, my gloves!" I guess I'll settle for the powder coated cheap plastic disposable ones that the PD hoped would save money. I work on a ‘per crime scene’ rate and let me tell you I don’t do family photo shoots, cover birthdays, bar mitzvahs, quinces or weddings, anymore, and I absolutely abhor pro-bono work.

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“Skurlig” I shouted! Detective Lance Skurlig, the ins and outs of Plano Crime Scene investigation starts with him. Lance currently is a mildly depressed, divorcee, gentleman in training. He's always been my best friend since cops and robbers on the playground, dragging me into this mess, always gives me the tip of the hat with his Lieutenant, and honestly, I don't know how he'd get through his day without acting like my big brother. 

"Told you you'd meet Skurlig"

“Lance what you got for me? Buddy!” I huffed as I traipsed up the walkway.

“Meet me by the mailbox Mertz” he said under his breath. 

It wasn't like Skurlig to send me away. Especially in front of his crew. I always felt like one in the crowd.. Skurlig always briefed me, gave me an overview, and as I always pulled down on my mask I went into the two “B's”: bodies and blood. With a Flash and a Snap I'd capture the essence of the killer, the elegance of the murder, and essentially the cry for help from the victim. You know sometimes there's a third B...breasts.  I confessed to you earlier I'm a gentleman but I'm also thirty-five and single. Dead breasts are still breasts and with the increase of crime it's all the breasts this hound dog has seen lately. Please give me a reprieve of that execution stare will you!

I took a slow walk to the heavily decorated red, white, and blue explosion of a mailbox as an opportunity to light up a cigarette, Marlboro Smooth menthols and took a swig from my flask, Johnny Walker, and noticed a real estate sign, this house was for sell. Unfortunately the front yard was too dim to read the sign, and apparently the city was too lazy to change the seizure causing flicker of the streetlamp on the curb. After a couple puffs I proceeded to wait. I will tell you this...waiting is never my modus operandi. Get in and get out, I thought.

In his shuffling of steps Skurlig almost fell to the pavement as he rushed towards me. Our eyes met and somehow I already knew who the victim was. Another shot and Johnny Walker swirled around my teeth and cheeks leaving a slow burning laced with menthol on my tongue.

“Mertz, you aren't going to like what I'm about to tell you. And you're probably going to need a bigger swig of that flask buddy.” Skurlig chuckled, there was an air of caution in his voice.

“Come on out with it!” I said. The victim was someone I knew, dated and broke up with, or deep down wished had been killed.

“It's Meredith.”

What? My heart sank. Better yet, my heart exploded. The hairs and pale face we're just a warning to what I already knew. He didn't need to say anything else. The bastard would rot in hell. My gumption swelled, and I'm pretty sure no gentleman in a coherent state would have used the language I just spouted.

“And Dick!” Skurlig continued.

“What, no!” I snapped back.

Meredith and Dick, we're the “perfect couple.” It was in the depths of my heart that I just hoped Dick would snap, go off the deep end, cheat on her, divorce her, anything but kill her so I'd get my chance with Mer, and now, I'm wedding photographer turned “death do us part” crime scene documentarian. 

The hairs on the back of my neck didn't lie, I'd talked to Meredith a week ago about this place. I looked to the Audi, no plates, it was new! It was the perfect car for a highly successful, highly sought-after real estate agent. I mustered the courage and choked up the words.

“What happened?,” faintly escaped my lips as I took another drag of my smoke.

A Westover Indeed Continues

I'm really finding the characters loveable! Here's a little more...

"Oh look thar. He's throwing stones with his rear differential. Hold me pipe Ma, dem gossip sistahs over on Turnberry be comin quick. I'd better change our Union Jack to our white surrender flag," Klein mused as he escaped the kitchen and ran up a flight for the front door.

Mr. Klein had a way of always getting Ms. Hogg laughing. She'd laugh so hard she'd snort and bark like a chihuahua rat dog. The front bell rang with the announcement that the papers had arrived.

Mr. Klein exited the front door, shooed away a few novice hand reporters and marched right up to the careless driver ready to pull him from the reins of his out of control carriage, the news van. He looked twice and realized his he, the one he thought was driving, was actually a she. After Mr. Klein took a breath and began calming down the window rolled down and a tiny voice escaped.

"Kind regards sir. Is this the Westover Estate?," said Margaret McIlroy.

"It is! Hey thar. Lassie! I knows ye. Ms. Margaret McIlroy?," Mr. Klein spoke with joy. "BBC Waterloo sent my favorite broadcaster all the way down to Westover. Well I'll be damned. I've got up thar in the estate a lady dats a bigger fan than I Boy-Oh."

"May I exit my vehicle sir?," Ms. McIlroy's professional voice escaped the down window.

"Oh Lord, look at me, blocking the news from goin down."

Mr. Klein backed up out of the way just as Ms. Hogg arrived knowing she'd have to apologize for anything that came out of Kent's mouth. She formally introduced herself and Mr. Klein, did indeed apologize and marched Kent back to the stairway by the front entrance. 

A Westover Indeed - The start of a Mystery

The lawn area around Westover Estate was lively the morning of the Twelfth of March with reports of Mr. And Mrs. Westover loaning many of their family's artifacts to London's Historical society annual Gala and fundraiser. It was announced late the previous evening that this year's theme was to be "An Evening Amongst Medieval Times." The broadcasts reported a never before seen by the public artifact of the disgraced Sir John Arundel would be included in the evening's display. 

The housekeeper, Ms. Charity Hogg, freshly returning from the market began turning away the reporters at 8:00 am when the moving truck arrived, but the flashing cameras and questioning sounded like swarms of locusts announcing the second coming. 

Ms. Hogg, almost seventy, with the youthfulness of 35, was used to the excitement around the castle as she'd been in residence for the last forty years. She started as a hand-maid, became a nanny, then tutor, for the Westover's four children, and was even an in house joker when she entertained Elizabeth's eldest and immediate heir to the throne Charles.  He aged well but he was a peckish little brat when he was only a thigh high. It so happens that she was also the first to turn the snobby reporters away when the African prince was snuck out the backdoor into a carriage when her majesty came for tea that three in the afternoon seven falls ago. She knew the protocol and had no problem standing ten feet taller than that six foot dashing BBC Westminster reporter Marcus Lovington, even if she fancied him. She demanded three things at Westover: 1. Order and honesty. 2. A Schedule for Everything. 3. Polished and dressed. The Westover's, their third generation grown children, and the gossiping neighbors all knew it.

"Oh Kent, look another one! This one actually Waterloo, you'd think they'd have been first!," Ms. Hogg guffawed to the Westover's groundskeeper Kent Klein.

Mr. Klein served as Junior Westover's valet until he finally admitted horse travel was dated and a cruel and unusual punishment for Polo horses in their prime. Mr. Klein was forced to fire the carrot eating purebreds and purchase an American Mustang. It was a beautiful 1967 cherry red fastback and it's shoes were perfectly polished daily to reflect the nine minutes of wear before they graced a muddy puddle. Mr. Klein, since that afternoon, was moved to mostly patrol and orderly keep as dictated by his partner now of forty years Ms. Charity Hogg. She was the love of his life. 

Munkertrap Meadow#3- The Jitterbug Jamboree

I kind of like this world I've created called Munkertrap Meadow. I'm thinking about trying to illustrate the playfulness of these stories. Just having fun.

The Jitterbug Jamboree at Laney Lamppost's Luncheonette

There's a hootin jamboree where the crickets chirp a finger plucking guitar solo. Crocodiles strum their backs and hold the beat while pounding their bulbous bellies. The Kellen Kelps kick a rhyme and everyone has a real good time.

Join the Jitterbugs where the swamp juice meets the throckenbock and Laney Lamppost's Luncheonette serves a biscuit to a hairlipped rascal with one sneaker missin. 

'There's a hot biscuit in my window Credence,' Laney shouted as she rang the bell.

Credence slid the honey-buttered goodness down the bar and it landed in the arms of Josie Gentry the town howling gossip.

For 11:48 at night the luncheonette sure was happening. The thumping sounds from Cousin Brucey's banjo provided just enough gig and him the gatherers gladly gifted their gilts and held a grooving good beat.

Mr. Mayweather fresh off his makeshift mongolin boat tied his long midnight Mayweather locks up into a mulderin magpie nest near the center of his head and let out a mean mustering whistle. In the fracas the noises of the room ceased and all eyes were rounded up to give a listen to the terrifying tale Mr. Mayweather was going to spout. 

If the crowd knew one thing they knew to listen to the tales of the mysterious mongolin from the Cajun spiced lips of Mr. Mayweather. His stories we're legendary and Cousin Brucey and the banjo beating bears were ready to underscore the musings about to escape.

Profiles

He blinked as sweat began to pour down his forehead. He took another sip of his drink, it was neat. The timer would begin in about thirty seconds. What was he doing? This was his chance at love, but every ounce of optimism left when he noticed Darla was playing the game. The next girl was six feet away, her bra was showing, and she wasn't a bad piece of eye-candy.

She sat.

She identified herself as Bianca, her tag said number 36. She was wearing rectangular shaped glasses. The glasses were missing a nose piece, that bothered him. He couldn't look away. She began immediately talking about herself. Confidence was definitely her strongest attribute. Her brownish red hair cascaded down in tight curls resting just below her chin. Her jawline was perfectly poised and reflected in perfect harmony the slight smile she had on her face as she made consonants that sounded sliced off a block. 

Bianca was not his type.

#11, Cami. As she also took the initiative to talk he noticed she had a dimple at the top of her nose that kind of twitched when she said one of a few things that made her giggle. He giggled too and was very complementary. He liked her thighs and the laced mid-calf boots she wore. He'd seen her at another singles night.

He left a dozen messages for 'hooker shoes' she never called him.

He blinked again and began laughing right in the middle of the 24 year old blonde's story about how she's been dating too long. She was 24! He offended her. 

#28, he didn't even catch her name, but she had incredible tits and his laugh was more like a howl from the coyote in the old Droopy cartoons when she talked about her ex-boyfriend ripping her off right beneath her nose. She too was offended.

By the time Rose introduced herself he was two to many rum in cokes in to realize they made a connection. He'd have to find her number in his jacket pocket the next day. She found him charming and although he'd never remember telling her he was in Wall-Street she knew deep down he was a bank teller at the Washington Mutual on the corner of 36th and Main a two block walk from her apartment. He rambled on about his favorite Scotch, comfiest loafer shoes, and how many rounds of Mortal Kombat it took for him to figure out all the finishing moves. She didn't care. She just piped in a few quips about how nerdy she was too and how it took her an hour to get off the Candy Crush in order to "doll" up for the evening.

They were the perfect profile for each other.

'Hey Kid! Whatayah fightin fah?'

Gerald saw the hurt in the kid's eye. He swung back then lept forward with a tight right jab to the kids left abdomen. 

The kid collapsed. 

Gerald himself was winded and fought the gushing eyebrow with his shirtsleeve. The kid had an amazing uppercut. He left it so graciously it was like an invitation to a party.

'Whatayah fighting fah kid?' Gerald spit through the grit in his bloodied teeth.

'Respect?'

'Honor?'

Gerald stood there noticing the kid kept eye contact. He wasn't blinkin or nuthin. The kid found his feet, slowly, like a downed gazelle in the African Sahara. The heat from his body formed a white Misty shadow as he heaved to catch his breath.

'Moxie!' the kid spoke breathlessly. 

The kid reached to his side. Gerald could not look away. He couldn't blink. The streetlamp in the alley cast a shadow as the kid's arm raised. There he held a 9mm simple revolver. He pulled the trigger.

'Bang'

'Moxie! You son of a bitch. Tha right thar was for my Dad.' The bullet hit Gerald square in the shoulder.

The kid fired again.

'Bang'

'Tha one. For Lucy!'

Everything stopped. All the sounds and movement crept by in a snail's pace. The kid rubbed his jaw and realized his hands were flowing a stream of blood down his arm and puddling beneath him.

The second shot: between the eyes. Gerald's legs gave out from beneath him and his body slowly fell, first to his knees, then his face kissed the frost bitten asphalt. 

Munkertrap Meadow #2- Adventures in Yellowboots

Enjoy this one. It's almost complete. I wanted to play with Point of View and Voice. This felt very welcoming to children. I was almost thinking of it like an interactive children's story show. So far this is my favorite. If I have any readers I could use some help finishing it. I'd love to have Minx the cat and Brewster be the culprits of the missing boots. Otherwise...just enjoy it...I feel like it's cute!

Adventures in Yellow Boots

Have you seen the large turtle shell in Munkertrap Meadow where Magpie Pass crosses Kaleidoscope Drive? It's over there, down the road from Mr. Magoop's Magical Emporium. 

In the polished to perfection ivory shell on the third floor sleeps Mr. Culpepper. He's snuggled in his bed. The slippery sheets are finely pressed and his little fingers peak out from the folds and creases. His gentle snores are a melody one can never forget.

'Arise Mr. Culpepper! It looks like rain!

He stretches his slender slinky arms and they 'Pop' and 'Crackle'. His mouth yawns a yipperering yawneroo yearning for a drink. His stomach speaks and craves a speck. 

'7:41!' he shouts. He leaps from the bed bends down then up. "It gets the zinks goin!" he says. He takes the fast way downstairs. The Dalmation firedogs installed a pole.

'Ring ding ding. Flash' 

The reddish purplish clouds far above Mr. Culpepper's head are calling to him. They want to sneak a peak at his high kicks adorned with yellow boots. They snicker.

"Mr. Culpepper the sun awaits. Dance your leaps. Dance your toe touches. Your spins and your kicks."

'But where are Mr. Culpepper's yellow rain boots?'

'Well they're not on the mat!' said Mr. Culpepper.

It's customary when entering another's home in Munkertrap Meadow to kindly remove one's shoes. Mr. Culpepper always puts his boots on his fox hair mat, by his large Mr. Culpepper shaped door. 

Mr. Culpepper gently scratches his forehead and caresses the stubble hairs that adorn his chin. He looked at his six-foot plastic mustached dinosaur in the corner by the band of tuxedo dressed stuffed crickets and expected an answer. 

'Mr. Culpepper, the light in the kitchen was left on.'

'I must have a visitor,' Mr. Culpepper exclaimed.

He followed a trail of what looked like powder sugar and red, blue and green sprinkles to the entryway of his enormous kitchen.

Atop the tree-trunk table was a tin-can box. Mr. Culpepper would have to investigate. The label read Barney's Bountiful Bakery.

'My favorite snack! A delicate doughnut topped with pink lemonade icing and rainbow sprinkles."

He bent over to invite the rising smells of yeasty baked pastry and was taken back to his childhood. 

"Hello!" Spoke Mr. Culpepper. 'Come out! It seems my Yellow Dancing boots are missing and you've left a snack."

The backdoor creaked with a wisp of a cool spearmint wind. 

"The garden!" Mr. Culpepper exclaimed. "Winifred, my whispering Willow will know the answer."

Mr. Culpepper dashed into the garden. He delicately landed a pirouette next to the 'tell me nots' their lips were sealed.  He fashioned a grand-jete barely missing Ms. Thornthistle's prickly bush. He spun again cheek to cheek with the pine tree, with a needle thin spring in his step. Then he lept to the comfort of the wispy arms of Winifred. His sleeping, weeping willow.

"We'll have to wake her up!" Mr. Culpepper exclaimed. "Oh Winifred," he whistled wildly.

"Children, let's help Mr. Culpepper wake Winifred!"

"Oh Winifred, wake up."

Winifred cleared her throat. "Well if it wisn't Mr. Culpepper, and the whittle children come to way wello."

"Winifred we've an emergency. My yellow rainboots are missing. I've had a visitor, the lights were on and the door was creaking. Whatever am I supposed to do."

"Well it wooks wike wain. Why wind my whispering willows woosh and wander." Winifred wildly worked her wandering willowlarks to work.

The garden filled with little flowers. Then in the breeze they gathered like a swarm of upset bumble bees above a downed patch of daffodils.

There amongst the yellow flowers peaked the top of one of Mr. Culpepper's yellow boots. 

"Wets wook where the weary willows wandered."

In a twist, turn and leap Mr. Culpepper exclaimed "it's one yellow boot!"

He snickered and grasped the rubbery leather and heard a soft snore escape from the inside of the boot.

"Hello?" Mr. Culpepper said. "Wake up! You've fallen asleep in the sole of my shoe!"

A delicate voice escaped, "Hello? I found this boot on a fox hair mat and it looked like it wanted to play," Out of the depths of the boot creeped a door-mouse dressed in a velvet nightrobe.