Eyes of the Predator (10 page)

“Maybe they struggled and that
was the only angle he had. Maybe he panicked and took the first opening he had
with the knife.”

“Maybe,” George said slowly, “but
I don’t think so. Seems to me this was an ambush. Mr. Sims never saw his killer
until the attack, maybe never saw him then. The knife was big. The single wound
was large, extremely painful and deadly, but not immediately. The perp would
have been able to watch Sims die, see his pain. I think he enjoyed it.”

“Really,” Shaklee said, looking
thoughtfully back over at the body. “That’s a pretty advanced theory from just
one body with a knife wound.”

George shrugged. “Maybe.”

Gravel crunched behind them and a
large white SUV with ‘GBI Crime Scene Unit’ stenciled on the side pulled up.
Two crime scene techs got out and gathered up large briefcases that resembled a
salesman’s sample cases and a couple of camera bags. They walked up to Bob
Shaklee.

“Hey, Bob,” one said. “Sorry it
took so long.” He nodded over at George and George nodded back. “What you got?”

“I’ll walk you through it,”
Shaklee replied, and then turned to George pulling a small plastic case from
his pocket. “Here’s my card, George. Give me a call if you think of anything
else. I appreciate your insight on this,” he said indicating Mr. Sims’ body
with a tilt of his head. “Anything at all, give me a call.”

“Sure. If I think of something.”

“Thanks,” Shaklee said, leading
the crime scene techs away. “Can I get hold of you through the sheriff’s
office?”

“Yeah, they can find me pretty
much any time.”

Shaklee lifted a hand in
acknowledgement and walked away with the techs, pointing at the area and
indicating where he wanted them to start processing the scene. Unlike the crime
scene tech television shows where the techs run the investigation, in real life
they work for the investigator, not the other way around. Agent Shaklee would
lead them through the scene, explaining what was necessary and the kinds of
evidence they should look for in order to build a prosecutable case in the
event that the investigators should find the perpetrator.

More gravel crunched and another
county car, this one a large, new SUV, ground into the church lot, braking hard
and spraying gravel. Sheriff Klineman stepped out in the midst of the dust
cloud he had created.

Seeing George, he walked briskly
to him. The aroma of aftershave filled the night air as the sheriff approached.
He looked freshly showered and groomed. Clearly, the sheriff had considered the
possibility that there might be some cameras or reporters at the scene and
wanted to put on his best face for the voters who would catch this on the
morning news out of Savannah. This was a big deal in Pickham County.
Unfortunately, the media had not yet had time to arrive, and the sheriff was
all gussied up for nothing.

“What happened Deputy?” The
sheriff’s tone was short and curt. He didn’t care for George. It was a mutual
feeling, and they both knew it.

“Came in as a missing person
call. Husband had gone through the woods to check out sounds at the church
here. He never came back. Sandy and I checked the area and found Mr. Sims
there.” George nodded over at the body on the ground by the woods. “He was
stabbed from behind. Large knife.”

“That it?”

“Yep. Right now that’s all we
have.”

“Where’s he live?”

“Other side of the woods. Have to
go around to Power Line Road. It’s an old farm house.”

“His wife know what happened?”

George nodded.

“Okay. I’ll go visit with his
wife after I see to things here.”

The reality was that the sheriff
was
only
there to visit with Mrs. Sims, and hopefully get his picture in
the paper consoling the old woman. The crime scene was secure, the GBI would be
handling the investigation from this point on and there was nothing for the
sheriff to ‘see to’, except to make sure the voters knew how involved he was
and how much he felt for the plight of the little old black woman who had lost
her husband in a brutal murder. Such a tragedy. His concern for justice and
dedication to apprehending the violent criminal who had committed such a
heinous act in his county, along with a television appearance showing him
standing beside the victim’s frail wife, maybe with a hand on her shoulder, or
even an arm around her, would be worth votes.

“Deputy Davies the primary on
this?”

“Yep.”

“And you?”

“Crime scene preservation.”

The sheriff looked around. “Looks
like it is pretty well preserved. You can go.”

With that, Sheriff Klineman
turned and walked towards the GBI man.

George turned and got into his
pickup. Cranking it up, he drove slowly from the parking lot. In the mirror, he
saw Bob Shaklee kneeling at the edge of the gravel beside the woods peering
hard at the ground and shining a flashlight. Sheriff Klineman appeared to be
talking to him, and Shaklee appeared to be ignoring him. George smiled.

Driving around to the front of
the church, George shined the pickup’s spotlight moving it in a slow arc around
the churchyard looking for anything that might reflect the powerful spotlight
beam. Anything, like maybe a murder weapon. There was nothing.

Pulling out onto the Jax Highway,
he backtracked to Power Line Road, slowly moving the light in arcs back and
forth and along the roadside ditches hoping to catch something in the light
that might be of use. The only thing the light picked up was an armadillo
grubbing in the dirt on the side of the road and too blinded by the light to
waddle back into the woods.

George drove slowly back to the
Sims’ place scanning with his light for anything that might be evidence.
Pulling into the yard, he drove up to the porch and parked in the grass.
Another GBI investigator, this one female, was standing on the porch talking to
Mrs. Sims. The agent’s gender immediately attracted George’s attention. There
were not many female law enforcement officers in that part of Georgia. It was
an interesting curiosity.

A man in his mid-thirties sat
beside Mrs. Sims in a rocking chair holding her hand. George realized that this
must be her son or another relative. It occurred to him that the chair was the
one Mr. Sims must have been sitting in when they heard the noises at the
church. The son looked up as George approached the porch. He stopped at the
steps.

The GBI agent was making notes on
a small pad. Mrs. Sims sat staring straight ahead, gripping her son’s hand.
George could see that the veins in her wrist and hand were standing out from
the exertion of the grip she had on her son’s hand.

“You see my, Harry?”

The old woman’s voice wavered and
cracked, partly from age, but mostly from the pain and loss of her husband.
George realized after a moment that despite her gaze fixed on the tree line at
the edge of the yard, she was speaking to him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How’s he look? Is he gonna be
okay?”

The GBI agent looked around and
down the steps at George. The expression on her face said,
‘Okay, so now
what are going to say? Oh yes, and why are you here…dumbass?’
George was
wondering the same thing.

“Well…,” he opened his mouth
trying to think of the right thing to say, but there was no right thing.

“Mama,” her son said. “You know
what happened. Someone hurt Papa. Hurt him real bad, and he ain’t coming back.
You know that.” He said it firmly but gently trying to help her through the
moment.

She lowered her head. “Yes, yes,
I know.” Wet streaks glistened on her weathered cheeks. Her son leaned forward
and put his head beside hers, his arm around her shoulders. They sat sobbing
together on the front porch.

The GBI agent gave George another
withering look that said this time,
‘Gee, thanks for coming deputy. You
really helped out and made things much better.’

George understood and turned back
towards his pickup.

“Deputy!”

George turned towards the old
woman. She looked him firmly in the eye, lifted one weathered, brown hand and
pointed at him.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You catch this person, who did
this to my Harry.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll try”

“You don’t try, son. You catch
him.” It was final, nothing more to be said.

George nodded and walked to his
vehicle. Glancing up at the investigator’s face, he saw the smirk and the look
that now said,
‘Way to go…asshole’
. That was precisely what George was
thinking.

 The noise of the engine
cranking made him cringe. It seemed loud and irreverent. He backed slowly away
from the house, conscious of the old woman’s eyes following him as he moved out
on the road.

He drove deliberately, not in any
particular direction, just away from the old woman’s gaze and pointing hand.
Her words echoing in his head.
‘You catch him deputy, you catch him.’

The GBI agent was right. Way to go asshole. Way to
fucking go.

The room was perfect, small and
dingy but with cinder block walls and a heavy steel door. The closest occupied
room was about ten doors away, at least that’s where the closest car was
parked. No one would hear anything that was about to happen in this room.
Probably no one would have heard anyway because of his preparation. Attention
to detail was ingrained in his methods.

First things, first. As the door
clicked quietly shut behind them, he motioned her to sit in a chair beside a
small table. He did not push or touch her in any way. He simply looked at her
for several minutes.

She avoided his stare. Her
trembling increased as his gaze lengthened into minutes until she was shivering
as if she had just come from icy water.

Finally, he walked behind her.
She started to turn her head, but he reached out and roughly jerked her head
around straight causing her to whimper in pain.

Stepping behind her, he pulled a
piece of duct tape from his pocket and slapped it quickly over her mouth. This
startled the girl, and she started to struggle but the knife was out and at her
throat this time, pressing firmly into the groove between the trachea and neck
muscle, about where the carotid artery would be.

Reaching down he took a roll of
the tape from the duffel bag he had thrown on the floor and looped a piece around
her mouth, all the way around her head, and around her mouth again. No need to
worry about anyone seeing now, and it was handy stuff, duct tape. It was used
so much in movies and on television for just this sort of thing that you didn’t
really think it would work, but it did. It worked perfectly.

He stepped back in front of her
now. The hope was gone from her eyes. The fear was back. She trembled. A
shudder of excitement ran through his body.

“Now, honey. Let’s start.”

He saw the muscles of her neck and
jaw contract. She was trying to scream. There was no sound. Her terror and
agony at not being able to make even a sound made something roar inside him.
The animal in him had been raging and now it was released to immerse himself in
the kill, to drench himself in her pain and fear.

Over the next hours, her terror
grew into a roaring crescendo, but no sound escaped. Her clothes had been cut
away. A plastic tarp had been placed around and under the chair to catch what
blood there was, but there wasn’t much. He was careful. The knife was only
there to cause pain and heighten his pleasure by increasing her fear. The cuts
he made were many but small. None bled very much. But each tiny cut was placed
to cause the most pain and to inflict the most fear. Lightly across her
breasts. The corners of her nose. The soles of her feet. None would cause
death, but all would cause pain and increase the greatest pain of all, her
fear. The animal that he was relished that fear like a great cat burying its
head into a still warm carcass, withdrawing with fur bloodstained and gory. No,
there was not much blood, but this predator bathed in her fear.

The girl closed her eyes. It was
an escape…an attempt to wash the horror of what was happening out of her mind.

“Open your eyes,” he hissed.

The girl just trembled, eyes
closed. He lifted his right hand in a fist and struck her hard in the forehead.
The blow left a bruise on her, but it was not hard enough to cause serious
damage. It did succeed in convincing the girl to open her eyes.

“Good,” he said. The grin was
back on his face. It was the grin she had closed her eyes to avoid.

He stood in front of her naked,
his clothes folded neatly on the bed, hers severed and in tatters on the floor.
Placing his hands around her throat, his grip tightened until her eyes bulged
and she made an attempt at struggling for her life. It was futile. He had not
spared the duct tape this time, safe in their little room at the StarLite
Motel.

 It was awkward standing in
front of her straddling the chair, and it required a great deal of strength and
time to kill in this way, but that was fine. He wanted it to take a long time,
and the exertion now at the end was part of his fulfillment.

Their eyes locked. Reality seemed
to register in the girl’s hopeless stare. It had finally become clear to her
that there would be no escape. Devoid of hope now, she was left only with the
terror. It sat cold and heavy on her chest. Hopeless and helpless, nothing
could ward off what was coming. And what was coming was the end. The end of
everything for her and all that had awaited her in life.

Squinting in a macabre sort of
concentration, he focused on his work, trying to suck out all of the fear and
pain and hopelessness she was feeling. It was like sucking the marrow out of a
bone—the best part. It washed over him bringing a shudder to his frame, and he
relished it. Releasing the tension in his muscular hands occasionally so as not
to hurry things, he gazed into the girl’s eyes. They were moist and wet. He
lost himself in the eyes until, after a time, they dimmed, and her stare became
blank. No longer deep, liquid pools of life seeing the world around them, they
became empty and barren. That too, pleased him.