Novels by Bob Buckholz

Chapter 1

     Quote-- “Thirteen minutes.  From start to finish thirteen minutes is all it took for me to kill her.  I raped her. I skinned her while she screamed, and then strangled her.  To finish it off, I threw her off the building and watched her crash to the ground in a heap of blood and exposed muscle.  After it was over I looked down and discovered I was aroused, so of course I had to do it again and again.”    

     Justin McCoy lingered behind the crime tape at the scene of a gruesome murder the editor had just assigned him to cover.  It was dark and the clouds covered the full moon, casting blackness and an eerie glow of streetlights. The night seemed to get longer with every movement. The cool breeze was a welcome break from the hot, sticky summer day all had just endured.  Everyone standing in the street waited as the police scurried about, hanging more crime scene tape around potential evidence areas. They were searching the area for whatever may have been left behind after the body had crashed to its final destination in the street

     McCoy was used to getting what was now considered the crap jobs in the newsroom, no one wanted to see another human taken from the world and have to write about it.  These things seemed to be getting routine as the city grew.  Murders were happening in the city far too many times, and that itself was becoming a story.  Bigger cities were used to it but here in a mid sized town, murder wasn’t on each day’s front page, not normally anyway.  Now murder was becoming as common as political rhetoric.  Justin was tired of writing about it, but he had no choice he was the newest writer at the paper. When the job was assigned, it was done, and done without any complaining.

     Justin was young and enthusiastic about writing.  He almost had a naïve outlook on how it was going to be when he joined the staff at the Post.  His enthusiasm dwindled after only a few weeks of obituaries, police reports, and mundane writing about some new business that was destined to fail in a few months.  Belief was still in what was being done, there was no question of that, but he had no idea the job entailed the cutthroat antics of reporters who were afraid for their job.  A young, talented writer would come in, causing some of the more seasoned reporters to very quickly point out who was who, and why.  Political bullshit is what it was, and Justin had always hoped to sidestep politics.

     It was shortly after the start of summer when the assignment for a murder just south of town came from the editor.  He was thrilled, and jumped at the chance to cover the story.  Justin took his time, finding facts, interviewing some listed witnesses, following the progress with his contacts inside the station.  The editor was impressed with the story, bringing praise when it was read at the end of day meeting.  All of that, just to see it cut to shreds on the editing table and placed well back in the paper.  No quotes, no research, just simple facts about someone who was killed on the streets.  It seemed so irresponsible, so normal.

     Now, here he was.  Standing only feet from a body saturating a sheet with the crimson stains of what used to be life.  The detective in charge came out of the building and immediately every one of the television and newspaper reporters, started screaming their questions.  The detective ignored them with an experienced glance while continuing to walk by.

     Justin stood behind all the others without saying a word.  He knew he would get his chance to question one of the officers.  After all, he worked for the biggest paper in town, which just happened to be the biggest contributor to the mayor’s run for re-election.  The publisher, with all his faults, did make sure they were kept in the loop when it came to important stories around the city.

     The detective stopped and chatted with another policeman, a uniformed officer that was standing close by watching all the commotion continue around her.  The woman officer didn’t seem to be interested in what the detective had to say, but then pointed toward Justin with a look of recognition.  The detective turned and paced slowly over to the gaggle of reporters.  Several of the people bombarded him with questions, which didn’t even garner a response.  He walked slowly past everyone but Justin.  When the detective got to where Justin was standing, the older man motioned with his finger to come to him.

     Justin ducked under the crime scene tape and walked over to the detective, once looking over his shoulder at the others as they stood in obvious wonderment.  For a short moment, ego came into play.

     “Come inside with me,” he said and started walking back to the building.

     Justin followed close behind as they slipped by the corpse lying on the ground.  He was tempted to snap a picture, but didn’t want to risk the detective sending him back to the pit of reporters.  Another officer held the door to the building open as Justin slipped through.  He was hit with the unmistakable smell of death all around.  He grabbed for his handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth with it.

     “It’s bad isn’t it?” the detective commented. “My name is detective Doug Miller and I’ve been in law enforcement for longer than you’ve been alive.  I’ve only seen one other thing that even compares to this crime scene, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

     “I’m Justin McCoy with the”—

     “I know who you are and why you’re here,” Miller interrupted still looking around the crime scene.  “I knew your father when he was a reporter.  We trusted each other with several stories and he never let me down.  I expect you won’t either.  There was one in particular that you may remember.”

     Justin was taken by surprise after what was just told to him.  Not many remembered his father personally; most of the people he had worked with were either dead or long gone from the area.  His father had died almost fifteen years ago.  The elder McCoy was covering a string of burglaries and passed away from a heart attack while trying to keep up with a chase that had ensured.  Justin was young and remembered very little about the whole series of events.

     Vivid memories of the funeral with the entire police department present stayed in the back of his mind though.  The police didn’t usually show up for a deceased reporter and render a twenty-one-gun salute.  It was something that surprised everyone at the ceremony.  He remembered how honored his mother was because of the show of support by the police department.

     “What can I do for you detective Miller?”

     “Look around Justin, what do you see?”

     Justin took the handkerchief down for a moment and surveyed the room.  Things did look eerily familiar to him.  The kind of familiar when you see a picture years after you had taken it.  He knew what he was looking at, but couldn’t remember why.  He turned around and looked behind him and saw blood on the wall.  The blood wasn’t splattered, but was obviously placed there as a message.  The message was clear, written so everyone who saw it would understand it’s meaning.  Bold, red and still damp was one word…Silas.

     Seeing the name brought back the memory of what he was observing.  This was the crime scene his father was famous for.  The pictures he had taken had run in several national newspapers and magazines.  It catapulted his father from virtual obscurity to one of the best-known reporters in America almost overnight.  The memory almost put Justin to his knees.

     “You remember, don’t you?” Miller asked.

     “Of course I do.  Who doesn’t remember?  This was the most important crime scene picture of its time.  Why would it be recreated like this?”

     “That’s my question to you, young man.”

     Justin was unsure why the detective would think he knew the answer to the question.  He had been a mere child when Silas was committing the worst murders that not only this city had seen, but probably the entire country.  Memories were from others talking about it, not actually being there.

     As Justin remembered it, there were at least ten women who were killed in the same manner. There wasn’t DNA testing at the time so it was difficult to put evidence together for each of the murders.  The police were convinced the same person committed them all, and worked the case as such.  His father became involved during the ninth murder when he found something on the ground and handed it to an officer.  The officer agreed to give Justin’s father the exclusive because of that small piece of evidence.  With that small piece and other essential evidence Silas was arrested, and subsequently convicted of all the crimes.  The papers had a field day with the story, and his father had been right at the heart of the entire affair.

    Justin had read all the articles and decided at a very young age he wanted to be a reporter just like his dad.  Many boys aspired to follow in their father’s footsteps, and most did not, but Justin was adamant about the career choice.  He studied hard and went to every writing class that was available in the school.  When he was finally hired as a writer there was a fulfillment in his life.  It was one of the best days.

     “Isn’t the killer extremely ill?” Justin asked, Miller.  “I mean the original killer, this guy, Silas.”

     “I heard he was,” Miller said as he bent down to pick something up. “They said on the news he had only a little time left and wouldn’t see the gas chamber after all.  I guess that’s why I want you to look into this.  It seems a little strange that his motives and marks would be used again.  As we investigate, you’ll have the exclusive right to what we find,” then whatever it was the detective picked up, went into a small brown paper envelope.

     Justin looked at the detective with hesitant resolve, “Why me?”

     “Simple,” and Miller reached into his pocket retrieving a small piece of paper inside a clear plastic bag. “Your name is on this piece of paper young man.  We don’t know who wrote it, but we’re quite sure it wasn’t you.  It happens to be written in blood, probably in the victims blood.”

     Again, Justin could only muster a stare at the aging detective.  He reached for the bag, but Miller pulled it away before he could touch it, “You’ll be able to look at this when we get to where we’re going.”

     “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand exactly what it is you want from me.”

     “Come with me and when you read the paper you’ll understand better, and see why there was no choice but to involve you,” he motioned for Justin to head for the door.

     They walked slowly by two paramedics who were just lifting the body on to the gurney for transport to the county morgue.  The sheet that had been pristine when it was laid on the body was now soaked with blood almost everywhere except at the feet.

     “What happened?” Justin asked Miller.

     “Surely you know,” Miller said as he stopped by the gurney. “You read your father’s articles.  You know what Silas did to his victims.  This is the same; who ever did this skinned her alive, then threw her off the top of the building.”

     The coroner’s assistants calmly started to roll the body to the waiting car.  Flash bulbs went off like strobes in the dark.  If someone had a camera, it was now a photograph of this poor woman on her last trip.  It almost made Justin sick being a part of the scene.  Every one of tomorrow’s headlines would concentrate on the girl, which was evident because he was part of the group that would create them.

     He stood watching the gurney being wheeled by the entire group and Miller walking to his car.  Miller made a quiet yell to Justin and motioned for him to get in; they had places to go.  Justin walked slowly to the car and opened the door.  The detective stood on his side of the car watching the young reporter take the passenger seat.

     “Kind of makes you sick, doesn’t it?  How many people does it take to get this story out anyway?” Then Miller shook his head and slid behind the wheel.

     Justin followed suit into the passenger’s seat calmly looking straight ahead.  He wouldn’t admit the scene was a sickening one; they would just ride and hopefully find out what it was the detective needed.

     It was short time before Miller spoke up, “Your father knew most of this story, but I suppose you’re aware of that.  There were pieces kept from him and the other media on purpose, but I suppose you’re aware of that too.  Some of those pieces are in that building, like the piece that I picked up off of the floor.  Only we knew about that, and of course the killer.”

     The two men rode in silence for the remainder of the trip.  Both lost in the thoughts of this bizarre happening.  Justin couldn’t help but think and wonder about the entire incident tonight and the man that had summoned him.  Miller was an enigma in his mind.  Someone who had been involved in the original “Silas” case, and now, again having to relive the whole ordeal through the actions of what appeared to be someone else.  It may have been a sick joke but most likely it was a copycat criminal trying to draw attention to the plight of Silas, and his impending death.

     Justin looked at Miller as he drove.  He was half slumped over the wheel, sort of like an old man driving his Cadillac to the store.  His hand positioned at the wheel right on the taught ten and two position.  He looked straight ahead, glancing at the rear view mirror every so often.  His gray suit was wrinkled and well worn from the years he had obviously attached himself to it.  His tongue worked back and forth on his lips as he watched the road ahead of him.  He wasn’t a tall man, but his stature wasn’t short either.  His gray hair was uncombed and wind blown from the breeze of the night.  Justin thought to himself that combing his hair wasn’t something the old man thought much about.

     “Are you going to tell me what’s on the paper?” Justin broke the silence.