Erick Burgess's Blog

Note from Rena: Today is World MS Day.  Erick wrote this post last week and scheduled it to be posted on this day. What neither he nor I knew was that he wouldn’t live to see the day. Sadly, he died unexpectedly Sunday evening. In addition to MS, he had diabetes, which had gone undiagnosed. That was the disease that ultimately took his life.  Thank you all for your support of Erick and his writing.

Batman or Superman?

Most people don’t hesitate in answering the question. They can tell you which hero is their favorite in an instant. For me, it was always Batman.

Then my symptoms came: weakness, vision problems, numbness and problems with coordination. When I was first diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2009, I was at a loss about how to explain what the disease was and how it was affecting my body. First described by Jean-Martin Charcot in 1868, MS is an inflammatory disease where the fatty myelin sheaths around the axons of the brain and spinal cord are damaged, leading to demyelination and scarring as well as a broad spectrum of signs and symptoms.

So what does that really mean?

MS affects the ability of nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord to communicate with each other effectively. Nerve cells communicate by sending electrical signals down fibers called axons, which are contained within an insulating substance called myelin. In MS, the body’s own immune system attacks and damages the myelin. When myelin is lost, the axons can no longer effectively conduct signals.

For the common man it’s difficult to explain, but every more difficult to live with. The signs and symptoms are different for everyone. One day the perfect way to explain it hit me:

Superman

 

As I said earlier, I’ve alway been a Batman guy. I mean, who can really relate to someone who is virtually a god? Granted, it’s not like I could really see myself as a billionaire playboy that fights crime at night, but it could happen.

The thing about Superman is that everyone knows who he is and he always looks the same. Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s… you know what comes next. Probably the most recognized superhero in pop culture, Superman has been elevated to mythic folk hero status. He is a universal icon that means different things to the diverse people he inspires. He fights for the little guy.

Superman is the most powerful being on the planet. He has super-everything—strength, speed, flight, invulnerability as well as his renowned X-ray and heat vision. He has one weakness – Kryptonite.

Stick with me, I promise this will all make sense (at least to comic book people). Kryptonite is the mineral debris from Krypton transformed into radioactive material by the forces that destroyed the planet. Prolonged exposure will eventually kill Superman. The radiation nullifies his powers and immobilizes him.

Some of the signs and symptoms:

• Blurred or double vision

• Thinking problems

• Clumsiness or a lack of coordination

• Loss of balance

• Numbness

• Tingling

• Weakness in an arm or leg

People who have MS are probably making the connection. For thirty-five years of my life, I felt like I was bigger, stronger and faster than most of the people around me. I played football in high school and college. I worked in law enforcement for close to ten years. To my kids, I was Superman. Why couldn’t my body do the same things it did before? After all, I don’t look any different. I was still wearing the blue suit and red cape.

When MS hits your body, it’s like the effects of Red Kryptonite. Out of nowhere, a problem can happen just one time, go away, and never return. For some, the symptoms become worse within weeks or months.

To the people around you, you are still Superman. Here are some of the things neither you nor they can see:

Abnormal sensations: we feel a “pins and needles” sensation, itching, burning, stabbing, or tearing pains. This past week, I felt like someone was stabbing me in the shoulder with a dull, hot blade.
Bladder problems: I have to rise from bed to go the bathroom four to five times each night. Try getting a good night’s sleep dealing with that.

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Difficulty walking: MS can cause muscle weakness or spasms, which make it harder to walk. Balance problems, numb feet, and fatigue can also make walking difficult. When I try playing basketball with my boys, it feels like my feet are in cement. I know what I want to do, but my body won’t let me.

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Dizziness: It’s common to feel dizzy or lightheaded. Sometimes this comes with vertigo. I had a bout of that a few weeks ago and I haven’t really felt steady since. It’s like the room is almost always spinning and you can’t get your bearings.
Fatigue: As I written before, this is my biggest problem. It usually hits in the afternoon and causes muscle weakness, slowed thinking and sleepiness.
Thinking problems: As a writer, I make my living putting words on a blank page. My concentration comes and goes. For most, this means slowed thinking, poor attention, or fuzzy memory. While it doesn’t change your intellect and ability to read and understand conversation, it’s extremely hard to gather my thoughts. I have notebooks to keep up with my notebooks.

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Problems with your eyes tend to be one of the first symptoms. They usually affect only one eye and go away on their own. Your sight may be blurry, gray, or have a dark spot in the center. You may suddenly have eye pain and temporary vision loss. At my last eye appointment, my doctor said my said my glasses seemed like they belonged to someone else.

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Depression- Sadness and or irritability, Loss of interest or pleasure in everyday activities, Loss of appetite—or increase in appetite, Sleep disturbances—either insomnia or excessive sleeping, agitation or slowing in behavior, fatigue, feelings of worthlessness or guilt, problems with thinking or concentration, persistent thoughts of death or suicide.

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I was never really a Superman, but now I feel like I can truly relate to him in his moments of weakness. As I go through my life trying to find my new normal, I know I can’t quit. I have to keep testing my limits to stay healthy and alive. I have to keep playing ball, writing and living my life to the fullest. I can’t let this disease defeat me. Just like Superman has an entire world to protect, I have a family to protect and I refuse to let them down.

 

This is the note that was left to me by my fifteen year old daughter this morning. All this after an appointment with my neurologist where I had testing, blood work and new medication prescribed to quell my latest and worst flareup.
I used the think the worst part about having MS was that people who looked at me couldn’t tell anything was wrong. I’m just lazy and don’t want to work. I’m irresponsible or just have the “blues”. It helps that I really don’t care what other people think. I have to admit though, sometimes it plays with your head. When I string together a few days where am feeling pretty good, I don’t see myself as sick.
Then reality hits.
Vertigo, double vision, complete and total fatigue, headaches, dizziness, loss of balance and the inability to concentrate, chronic pain – Everyday.  Even with all this, it’s the words of my daughter that bring me to my knees.
I wonder if she realizes 50% of people with with chronic pain consider suicide? I wonder if she knows that she and her brother were the only reason I never considered taking my own life? Does she know how often I plead with God to have taken me instead of their mother? Does she realize that no matter what, I still love her?

 

 Mind Games

An eerie silence fell over the room as he opened his eyes. James knew it was impossible to be asleep and awake at the same time, but his mind told him differently. Though his eyes were open, he was surrounded by darkness. His head started to pound and the room started to spin. He closed his eyes and gripped a handful of sheets, but it didn’t help. The room was spinning like an out of control ferris wheel. His mind told him the room couldn’t be moving. It was impossible. He knew the brick and mortar structure continued to be anchored to its foundation, but the mind can easily be led astray. For James, it wasn’t the first time his mind had lied to him. How could the room twist and turn in his imagination and his mind not follow? Finally he took a deep breath and sat straight up in the bed as a metallic taste filled his mouth. He swung his feet over the edge and attempted to stand. His body crashed to the floor with a loud thud. As he lay with his head on the ground, he was assaulted by the smell of moldy carpet. “If I survive this, I’ll steam clean the carpet as soon as I can,” he thought. The only sound he could hear was his stomach churning and bubbling.  He forced himself to his knees but the room continued to spin. He felt like his body was being attacked from the inside out. Suddenly he felt a vise-like grip to his belly. From the pit of his stomach, the previous night’s dinner spattered on the floor. He fell on his back and rolled to his left to stay clear of the vomit. The sour smell was strong enough to make him turn and dry heave. Like his spirit, his stomach was empty.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What  do you think? Please leave a comment below or ask me directly on twitter @clue_writer

Written by: Scott Snyder
Backup Written by: Scott Snyder, James T Tynion IV
Art by: Andy Kubert, Sandra Hope
Backup Art by: Alex Maleev
Cover by: Greg Capullo

BATMAN 19 – “Nowhere Man”

DC Comics’ contribution to April Fool’s Day  are a series of “WTF” covers that are series wide. Some might call it a cheap stunt, but there was no way I was going to miss an issue with Bruce holding a gun. That isn’t even the real surprise. When you unfold the special gateway cover, it reveals that Wayne is actually holding the gun on . . . Commissioner Gordon. When I started reading it, I expected it to be some sort of dream sequence and Bruce was going to wake up at any moment. He didn’t. Instead, the reader is taken to six day prior, one of Batman’s last adventures before Robin is murdered (something that still rips my insides to pieces). Batman is facing the Reaper (see Batman: Year Two: Fear the Reaper) I’m sure it was no coincidence  that story by Mike Barr was the first issue I had ever seen with the Batman actually wielding a gun. With so many reboots and retcons, I chose to leave that series out of my personal Batman mythos. I digress. Mid issue, Batman discovers that Clayface has returned, but it’s not the Clayface of old. In the past, his alter ego of Basil Harlo always retained a trace of his DNA. This new Clayface is a true mimic which means if he can somehow come in contact with his target,  he also duplicates their DNA. This spells big-time bad new for the Caped Crusader and the rest of Gotham. Great issue. I’m a huge fan of Scott Synder and Greg Capullo. There is also a secondary story entitled Ghost Lights that feature Batman and Superman. It’s a two parter and I’m forward to see how the storyline wraps up.

Written by: Peter J. Tomasi
Art by: Patrick Gleason, Mick Gray
Cover by: Patrick Gleason, Mick Gray

Batman and Red Robin #19 – “Denial”

I really wasn’t sure to expect from this issue since the title had been Batman and Robin since the start of the New 52. To be honest, this wasn’t a title I read until Robin’s death. In fact, I didn’t event like Damian Wayne until he showed up in Nightwing #18, to help former Robin, Dick Grayson, deal with the issues surrounding Death of the Family. I liked the bond he forged with Nightwing when he was at his lowest point. Robin gave him hope for the future and they even made plans to meet later and play a video game together, something that real brothers would do. After Robin’s death, I picked up Batman and Robin #18  and it was one of the best issues I’ve ever purchased. Notice I didn’t say one of the best I ever read. The entire issue is silent. The only words are from a letter Damien wrote to Bruce before he went on his last mission. It’s truly heartbreaking but I couldn’t put the issue down. If I could only buy one Batman comic book this year, it would be that issue. Moving forward into #18, their WTF gateway cover is Batman swooping down with his new partner . . . Carrie Kelly. For long-time Dark Knight fans, you know Carrie Kelly actually become Robin in The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller. It turns out that she had secretly been tutoring Damien Wayne. When Bruce attempts to return some items to her house, she is in the middle of a costume party and yes, she is dressed as Robin. This pushes Bruce even further off the edge. Batman then sets out on a top secret mission involving Frankenstein: Agent of Shade. I haven’t read this series, but according to the DC comics website, It’s Frankenstein as you’ve never seen him before, in a dark new series from acclaimed writer Jeff Lemire and artist Alberto Ponticelli! Frankenstein is part of a network of strange beings who work for an even stranger government organization: The Super Human Advanced Defense Executive! But can he protect the world from threats even more horrifying than himself? And since he’s vilified for who and what he is, will he even want to take on this mission? I won’t give any more away but what do you thinks happens when a man stricken mad with grief, kidnaps a monster that neither truly alive nor is dead?

What  do you think? Please leave a comment below or ask me directly on twitter @clue_writer

 

Cluewriter’s new book, Darker Than Night, is releasing today, and while it has a wonderful, strong male lead in the character of Carter Williams, it also has some interesting female characters. Here’s an introduction to a few of them.

Lieutenant Pamela Shelton:

“In her late forties and of South American descent, she was considered attractive by most. Those people didn’t know her. With a reputation built more in the bedroom than the squad room, she ruled more as politician than cop.”

Ladies, this is one woman you don’t want to be. She’s got power in the homicide department, but because of her reputation, she gets no respect. She’s a bitter, unhappy woman, whose choices have left her feeling empty and unfulfilled. As a result, she takes out her misery on everyone around her.

Detective Karen Dire:

“A thirty-seven-year-old detective with an unusual reputation. Some thought of her as crazy, and others thought of her as a witch. Not as in difficult to deal with, but an actual spell-casting witch. She had a streak of gray running down the length of her brown hair, which just fueled people’s speculation.”

Karen is a veteran homicide detective with a heart of gold. She’s quick to offer Carter a listening ear and encourages him when he is down. Unlike Lt. Shelton, Karen doesn’t allow how other people talk about her to define who she is. She is confident in her own skin, and does her job with excellence.

Detective Ophelia Hawkins:

“Hawkins made it a point to fight for the underdog. She had a big heart and wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, probably the reason why she hadn’t been promoted. She didn’t care—she preferred speaking for the dead. As with so many black women, she appeared just as beautiful at fifty-five as she had been at twenty-five. Her bright, stunning eyes, made her charming as well as intimidating.”

Ophelia is a smart, sharp detective, who also distinguishes herself as a lady. She doesn’t get much page time in Darker Than Night, but just from the brief description, I admire her. (By the way, I hear she’s got a starring role in the next book.)

Kisa Williams:

“A natural beauty, Kisa had straight black hair that hung a shade past her shoulders. Her body, which had a permanent tan stemming from her African-American father and Hawaiian mother, stayed shapely and toned. She had dimples deep enough to swim in and golden brown eyes so beautiful only God could have created them…As much as he loved her, she could be a real piece of work when she didn’t get her way.”

Oh, Kisa. You don’t know whether to love her or hate her. Her moods and behaviors cover the whole spectrum. One minute she’s a doting wife and mother, the next minute she’s evil personified. This quote from the book gives some insight into Kisa: “Going from daughter to wife and then to mother without taking time to be Kisa had caused a crack in her spirit she didn’t think could ever be repaired.” As a woman, I totally understand this, and I’m rooting for the good side of Kisa to win out, just like I want it to in my own life.

This is just a brief introduction to some of the ladies in Darker Than Night.  Be sure to check out the rest of the story, available now on Amazon.

Also, don’t forget, we are giving away a free copy of the book to one lucky reader who tweets with the hashtag #darkerthannight.

Here are some ready-made tweets for your use, if you’d like:

A mysterious killer is stalking Baton Rouge. Find out more in @clue_writer’s new #thriller http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4 #darkerthannight  Click to Tweet.

Maybe it’s time to be afraid of the dark. Check out the new #thriller from @clue_writer. http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4 #darkerthannight   Click to Tweet.

Releasing today, exclusively on #kindle: a new #thriller from @clue_writer. http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4 #darkerthannight  Click to Tweet.

In the UK? We’ve got you covered. Check out the new #thriller from Erick Burgess http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00C34Q1A4 #darkerthannight    Click to Tweet.

RT or use hashtag #darkerthannight for a chance to win a free copy of the new #thriller from @clue_writer http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4   Click to Tweet.

___________________

Cluegirl is Cluewriter’s feisty sidekick, who can often be found reading a mystery novel or a comic book. You can find her on Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Chapter Three

“Didn’t think it was going to end like this, huh?” Poole said and smiled. His blond hair had begun to gray at the temples. His wire-rimmed glasses sat on the edge of his pointy nose, and he looked as if his weight had dipped under two hundred pounds.

“So this is the end?” Carter asked. “The end of my suspension?”

“You killed a man.”

Carter could feel the anger building, but he refused to let Poole upset him. Any good investigator knows to keep the suspect off balance, but Poole had already tipped his hand.

“What happened to Newsome was an accident.”

“Well, if it were only that easy,” Poole said and laughed. “Wouldn’t it be funny to reinstate you and then arrest you for capital murder?”

“You know I didn’t kill Bentley.”

“I know that? Are you sure? Because I’m not.”

“Okay, Jay, then arrest me.”

“First of all, you will address me as either Lieutenant or Detective Poole. You know, this doesn’t have to be this way. Everyone knows how the Bentley case got to you. It got to all of us. You wanted justice. Then after what happened to Detective Newsome—”

“You want to arrest me for that, Jay?”

“The investigation is still ongoing. Listen, what I’m saying is, we all hurt when Bentley got off. We’ve already ruled out all the family members of his victims. With all that pressure, who else would have a better motive?”

“You couldn’t pin what happened to Newsome on me, so you come up with this?”

He tilted his head and asked, “Where were you yesterday at about eleven o’clock?”

There was something about a way Poole asked the question, an uncertainty.

“You don’t know?” Williams asked and shook his head. “For as long as you’ve been a detective, you know you shouldn’t ask a question like that without already knowing the answer.”

“Williams, I’m not one of your students.”

“I’d fail you if you were.”

“This is not a joke, and neither are my investigative skills—”

“I was at the college, grading papers for my criminology classes. My teaching assistant and I were there from eight until eleven in the morning. After that I went to church, followed by a late lunch with my family. You could have checked that out. Jay, why are you wasting my time?”

First Poole’s ears, and then his entire face flushed red. The door to the lieutenant’s office opened and a bold, raspy voice said, “I’ll take it from here, Slick.”

Carter knew in an instant to whom the voice belonged. Deputy Chief Harris had an annoying habit of calling everyone “Slick.” Though only a few years older than Carter, he carried himself like an old school cop and made no excuses for it. Many people said he resembled a young Bill Clinton, and was so smooth he could swim without getting wet. Poole stood, closed the file, and left the room without making eye contact with Carter. Deputy Chief Harris took the seat and asked, “How are you, Detective Williams?”

“Detective?” he asked. “That would imply I was a cop again. I thought Shelton was trying to lock me up.”

“Well, that’s my fault.”

“You?” Carter asked, surprised. Harris served as second-in-command for Police Chief James Pierre. The chief, a womanizing figurehead, had stopped being a lawman a long time ago and left most of the heavy lifting to Harris.

“I told her to ask you to come in so we could talk about the Bentley case. She got the wrong idea, called in Poole and ran with it.”

“You want my help?”

“Take a look at the crime scene pictures and tell me what you think. Do it for me, Slick.” He handed Carter the case file, and Carter opened the folder and removed the preliminary report. He turned it over and placed it on the table.

“You don’t want to look at the report?”

“No,” he answered and began flipping through the crime scene photos. The first shot showed Dwayne Bentley lying face down on his bathroom floor with his shorts and underwear around his ankles. The toilet appeared to have backed up, and waste covered all the surrounding floor. Other than a bowling-ball-size indention on the wall behind the toilet, there were no other signs of a struggle. The final picture displayed a close-up of an inflamed patch of skin on the victim’s right buttock. Carter took another look at all of the pictures before closing the file and sliding in back to Harris. “The crime scene was staged. Bentley was murdered.”

“How can you be so sure?” Harris started. “It looks like he was taking a dump and a snake came up through the sewer pipe and bit him.”

“Then where’s the snake?” Carter asked. “If the toilet had backed up, it couldn’t have gotten out the way it came, and there are no tracks, slither marks, or whatever snakes leave behind.”

“See. That’s what I’m talking about. This is why we need you. Everyone missed that until Taylor examined his body. Do you want to guess how we finally figured it out?”

Carter took another look at the pictures. “Was the floor under the body wet?”

“Nope.”

“If the floor under his body was dry, then he was on the ground before the toilet backed up. I can’t tell you how someone did it, but he was murdered. You already knew that. Steve, why am I here?”

“If you want it, I am here to give you your job back.” Carter froze when he mentioned job.

The job.

His job.

Some people are thrust into their profession. Through necessity, most people are forced into jobs they can’t stand. Carter counted himself as one of the few fortunate people who truly enjoyed his work. No matter what cops say, they all strive to make it to homicide. Solving a homicide was like trying to thread a needle while blindfolded. Carter considered it God’s work, and he was quite good at it. Some say the best.

Harris continued, “Listen to me. You know Bentley’s history backwards and forwards. Who would do a better job working this case?”

“I don’t know. Bentley was one of my first cases. I’ve always regretted the fact that he got off. What makes you think I’m the one to catch his killer?”

“Because I know you’ll do the right thing. You’ll work this case like your life depends on it.”

Deep down inside, Carter knew his words were true. That was part of the problem. As much as he longed to return to the job he loved, he loved his family more. The past six month have been the best his marriage had seen since he had become a detective. If he accepted the assignment, he knew it would lead him back down a dark path where he may never return. He looked at the file in front of the Chief.

“Come on, Slick. This is your chance to make it right. You catch his killer and close this case forever.”

It wouldn’t have matter what Harris had said, Carter already had his mind made up.

“When do I start?”

Harris smiled, shook Carter’s hand, and said, “First thing in the morning. Good luck.”

“I’ll need it. I still have to tell my wife.”

Kisa was going to throw a fit of epic proportions. They had finally settled back into the comfortable place where marriages are supposed to be. They both had set schedules, weekly dates and trust. The more Carter thought, the more he wondered, Can you truly have trust if you don’t have forgiveness? That was the fear and dread that rang in his mind. He had to do this. From the moment the Lieutenant told him of Bentley’s death, he hadn’t thought of anything else.

It had already begun.

A fresh homicide was intoxicating to the point where if Carter wasn’t careful, he would be completely consumed by every aspect of the case.  To make the transition back to the force, he knew he had to find the proper balance. A uniform dropped Carter back at his house to pick up his car, and he made it to the campus with ten minutes to spare before his class started. As he lectured on the principles of investigation during his eleven o’clock class, he found himself smiling for no reason. His hands tingled, and he felt excited for the first time in months. After his one o’clock Intro to Criminal Justice class, he spoke to the head of the criminal justice department and advised him of his return to the department. He thanked Carter, and said the detective would be welcomed back as a guest lecturer anytime. He arrived home for the day at half past five. As happy as he felt about being back on the force, he struggled with how he would tell his wife he was going back to the job that had almost cost them their marriage.

Carter entered the dark house and walked over to the refrigerator, but he didn’t have an appetite. He could hear a faint murmuring coming from down the hallway. He followed the sound toward his bedroom, stopping at his son’s room to peek inside. Power Rangers hummed in the background while the boy sat on his bed playing with action figures.

“Daddy!” he shouted and ran toward his father. Carter scooped him up and held him tight. As good as the morning was, getting a hug from his son was by far the best part of his day. “I got an A on my spelling test. Don’t forget we have to finish my project. We had tater tots for lunch. I like tater tots, but I told Mom so she wouldn’t make them again tonight. Is there a game on tonight? Can we watch it?”

“Slow down, big guy. We’re going to have dinner, watch the game, and I’ll read you a story before bed. Deal?”

“Can I tell you about the pocket rocket? Peyton got one for his birthday. Maybe I can get one for Christmas? And—”

“Before bed, I promise you can tell me everything. I’m going to go get cleaned up now, okay?”

The boy smiled and hugged his father again. Carter moved down the hall and saw a small crack at the bedroom door. Before he could go inside, Kisa, his wife, met him at the door.

“I thought I heard you,” she said as she walked past. “The Kellers will be here at six.”

“I forgot they were coming. I guess it’s too late to cancel?”

“This little weekly get-together was your idea, remember?” She kissed him on the cheek. “They’ll be here in less than an hour, so you might want to clean up a bit.”

Carter sighed. “Yeah, that sounds good. How was your day?”

“Fine,” she answered and disappeared around the corner.

He walked into the bedroom, took off his coat, and tossed it on the bed. He had started to remove his shirt when the phone sitting on the bed caught his attention. He picked it up and it was still warm. It didn’t take an ace detective to figure it was warm from being against Kisa’s face. The call display showed the last call lasted over an hour and had just ended.

Could it be starting again? 

She admitted to two affairs in their fifteen years of marriage. He suspected at least one more, but those suspicions had led him to a dark place from which he hadn’t yet returned, and which could have cost him his job as well as his family. Before he could hit redial, he heard her coming back down the hall. He put the phone back in its place and continued to undress. She walked in, sipping from a mug.

“Green tea. Want some?”

“No, thanks.” He walked to her and put his arms around her. He loved having her in his arms. A natural beauty, Kisa had straight black hair that hung a shade past her shoulders. Her body, which had a permanent tan stemming from her African-American father and Hawaiian mother, stayed shapely and toned. She had dimples deep enough to swim in and golden brown eyes so beautiful only God could have created them. He kissed her long and deep, like he did when they first married.

“What was that for?” she asked as she pulled away.

“Just because.”

She looked at Carter with distrust and returned to the kitchen. He took a quick shower and tried to wash away his feelings of doubt and insecurity before dressing in the blue oxford and khaki pants she had laid out for him. In the kitchen he found his childhood friend, Richard, standing behind Kisa as she stirred her latest masterpiece.

“Get your own wife,” Carter joked.

“I got one. She’s in there watching the game with Shawn.” He laughed. “I was trying to get a taste of that spaghetti.”

“I keep telling him you didn’t marry me for my cooking,” Kisa said. Richard slapped Carter on the shoulder and said, “You’re a lucky man.”

Richard’s wife, Ricki, yelled from the living room, “The Saints just scored again. Are we ready to eat?”

Richard leaned in and said, “I swear if she doesn’t stop eating so much, she’s gonna to be as big as a Buick.”

Kisa swatted at both of them and said, “Let’s eat.”

After dinner, the men went out to the front porch to enjoy the cool autumn air. Sitting in the antique maple rockers passed down from Carter’s grandfather to his father and then to him, they saw a night that could have been something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. He should be been thinking about anything other than Dwayne Bentley. Richard rocked back in his chair and said, “I’m going to be making some major moves soon. I need someone I can trust. Have you thought any more about coming to work for me? I could use a man like you to head my criminal investigative unit.” Though you would never guess it by looking at him, Richard Keller was a multimillionaire. After graduating with degrees in electrical engineering and computer science in the late 1980s, he’d spent part of the inheritance he received when his parents died to purchase a few hundred acres of swampland around Martin Lake in Lafayette. There, he created his state-of-the-art private training facility to provide support for military and law enforcement organizations. “You can name your own price.”

Carter took a deep breath and said, “I start back with the department tomorrow.”

“Wow.” Richard paused, seeming to absorb the news. “That’s great. What does the little woman think?”

“We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“Well, anyway, I bet it’ll be good being back at work, huh?”

“Honestly?” Carter asked.

“No, pee on my head and tell me it’s rain! Of course, honestly.”

“I feel guilty.”

“Guilty because of what happened to your partner? That was an accident.”

“No, that one is still hanging over my head,” Carter answered.

“Then what is it?”

“They want me to work the Dwayne Bentley case. He was murdered yesterday.”

Richard took a sip from his wineglass. “Dwayne Bentley. I almost forgot about him. You should give a medal to whoever killed him. Anyone who hurts a kid should be put under the jail.”

“You remember what that case did to me?”

“Yeah. Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“No, but I know I have to do it. I have to catch his killer.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry about it. Bentley is probably getting a pitchfork shoved up his rearend about now.” He raised his glass. “Let him burn in hell, I say.”

Carter smiled and wished he could have dismissed it as easily as his friend. No one had ever told him being a cop would be easy, and cases like Bentley’s served to remind him of that fact. As good a friend as Richard was, he wasn’t a cop, and he would never understand the emotions involved. “Dwayne Bentley, the one who got away,” Richard continued. “I’ll tell you one thing—you can’t outrun the devil. He got what was coming to him. You know, it was like there was something personal with you and him. What was it?”

Before Carter could respond, Ricki walked out onto the porch. “The babysitter called. Henry won’t stop crying. We need to go,” she said with a stone face and no emotion. She walked to the car without saying goodbye.

“What’s wrong with her?” Carter whispered.

“That crazy cow thinks I’m cheating on her.” Richard headed toward the car. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

After they drove away, Carter headed back inside and joined Shawn in the living room. They watched the Saints destroy the 49ers, and then Carter put his son, who had been dozing since the beginning of the third quarter, in the bed. The boy refused to budge until the game ended. When Carter entered the bedroom, Kisa closed her book and turned over, facing away from him.

“I had a good time tonight,” he said as he changed into the pajamas she had laid out for him.

“Me, too.”

“You feel like talking?”

“About what?”

“Well, my suspension is over, and they want me back.” She didn’t say anything. “Look, I know you don’t want me to be a cop anymore.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He got into bed. “Talk to me.”

“Things have been going well. Why do you have to go back?”

“It’s my job. I’m a detective.”

“You’ve also been a teacher. Hasn’t that been your job, too? You’re just being selfish.”

“I’m being selfish?” he asked, incredulous. “They need me.”

“Shawn and I need you. Do you remember how they treated you after Ray died? Why would you want to go back to that?”

“Honey, why are we fighting?”

“We’re not fighting. Goodnight!”

She had her reasons for not wanting him to go back, and Carter had the same concerns.  As much as he loved her, she could be a real piece of work when she didn’t get her way. He couldn’t blame her. With all that had happened in the past few months, maybe she was right.

Coming Soon
April 3, 2013

One of the hardest things about being an author, especially when over three million new books are released annually, is to get your book to stand out from the crowd. I caught a break in January, when Under Abnormal Conditions went free on Amazon, which carried over into paid sales after the price went up. It’s also caught on in the United Kingdom, even more than in the US. I’m not sure how that happened–it could be some anointing from my pastor, Philip Pimlott, a UK native, or perhaps because of an excellent critique by Steph Thomas, which helped improve the manuscript. (As a side note, authors, check out her affordable and insightful critique service. Between Rena and I, she’s critiqued three of our books, and her input has been extremely valuable.) Anyway, shout-out to any of my British readers who happen to read this blog — you are appreciated.

Ever since the re-release of Under Abnormal Conditions last November, I have been editing my next book and preparing it for release. That day has finally arrived. Tomorrow is the official release date of my next book, a thriller, Darker Than Night. This book focuses on the life of Carter Williams, a homicide detective in the Baton Rouge Police Department. A lot of the book was inspired by the people and situations I encountered working for Probation and Parole in East Baton Rouge Parish.

Here’s the official book description:

In Darker Than Night, secrets and scandals are served up daily in a world where no one is safe, neither sinner nor saint. The brutal predator whispers his chilling signature line to each victim before he strikes: “I come from a place darker than night.”

Reluctantly reinstated to the force, seasoned yet troubled homicide detective Carter Williams is assigned to investigate the death of a reputed child molester and murderer. The gruesome murder upsets no one, but as the killer goes on to torture and slay numerous victims, he surprisingly wins favor with the public.

As the case becomes more and more personal, Williams’ own reputation is threatened as he deals with department politics, a young partner, and a fragile home life. Williams struggles to unravel the gruesome mystery while trying to hold onto everything he has so carefully strived to protect.

Although the book isn’t officially releasing until tomorrow, you can get it now exclusively on Amazon: http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4

In order to get the word out about this book, I need some help from you, my loyal readers.

I would appreciate you sharing this post, or the direct link to the book on social media, especially Facebook and Twitter. If you use twitter, please include the hashtag #darkerthannight. As an incentive, I will enter all the tweets using that hashtag today and Tuesday into a drawing to receive a free copy of the book.

I have included some ready-made tweets to make it as easy as possible (although you can feel free to use your own as well).

A mysterious killer is stalking Baton Rouge. Find out more in @clue_writer’s new #thriller http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4 #darkerthannight  Click to Tweet.

Maybe it’s time to be afraid of the dark. Check out the new #thriller from @clue_writer. http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4 #darkerthannight   Click to Tweet.

Releasing today, exclusively on #kindle: a new #thriller from @clue_writer. http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4 #darkerthannight  Click to Tweet.

In the UK? We’ve got you covered. Check out the new #thriller from Erick Burgess http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00C34Q1A4 #darkerthannight    Click to Tweet.

RT or use hashtag #darkerthannight for a chance to win a free copy of the new #thriller from @clue_writer http://amzn.com/B00C34Q1A4   Click to Tweet.

Also, I am offering a free follow-up short story to anyone who reads the book and posts a review on Amazon. Just send me a link to your review (positive or negative), and I will email you the story.

As always, I am grateful to my readers. Without you, this wouldn’t be possible. Thank you.

Chapter Two

Carter Williams, a big man with broad shoulders and overpowering intellect, stood and flipped up the collar of his coat. Crisp and cold air blew on that first Monday morning of December, as a chilling wind rustled the leaves on the trees. A cold front had dumped what seemed like an ocean of rain on Baton Rouge the day before and brought the first bit of winter weather for the season.

“Always remember the most important aspect of evidence collection is protecting the crime scene,” said the former ace homicide detective as he knelt over his subject.

“But—” Shawn, his ten-year-old son, tried to interrupt.

“No buts. Pay attention. Before it’s contaminated, you have to collect and record the evidence. Take this, for instance.” He pulled out a small plastic container holding a single live cockroach.

“Is that a roach?”

“Yes. Insecta Dictyoptera. I found this one in the house. Let’s say this roach did something as simple as walk through a pool of blood at a crime scene. It can produce tracking an untrained observer may not recognize. The little things are important. Specks of blood in unique and unusual areas may mislead crime scene technicians unless they are aware of the appearance of blood contaminated by roach tracks. The same thing can happen with flies, fleas, or any other insects.”

An exasperated breath escaped the boy’s mouth. “That’s cool…I guess,” he answered and rolled his eyes. Carter noticed his son focusing on something in the distance. He turned to see a white, unmarked police cruiser turning into his driveway. He felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach. Had his day of reckoning finally arrived?

“Go inside and finish getting ready for school,” he told his son.

“Okay, but don’t forget the project is due Friday, and you promised to help me finish,” the boy said and ran inside.

The car stopped and out stepped Carter’s former supervisor, Lieutenant Pamela Shelton. In her late forties and of South American descent, she was considered attractive by most. Those people didn’t know her. With a reputation built more in the bedroom than the squad room, she ruled more as politician than cop.

As she walked toward him, Carter popped open the container and released the roach onto the ground. It scurried toward the lieutenant. He held them both in the same regard. Her heavily made up face and weighty chest gave her the look of an aged porn star. She ran her hand through her dark shoulder-length hair and, with a slight lisp, said, “Carter.”

“Lieutenant,” he replied.

“I hear you are teaching again.”

“Just a few night classes at the Community College. Next semester I’ll go back to the university.”

She looked nervous, but why? If this was going to be the end of his law enforcement career, he would have thought she would be at the very least satisfied if not pleased. Six months ago, Carter had served as one of three black detectives in the homicide division of the Baton Rouge Police Department. The number dropped down to two after the death of his former partner, Ray Newsome. That death led to his suspension. He spent the first month convincing himself Ray’s death wasn’t his fault. The next five he spent trying to convince everyone else. Carter imagined what else could go wrong.

“Cut the pleasantries, Lieutenant. Why are you here?”

“There’s been a murder.”

“Is this your way of giving me my job back? All you had to do was ask. Is my suspension over?”

“No, Carter. You don’t understand.” She hesitated. “I…I need you to come in for questioning.”

“Questioning? I’m a suspect? Are you serious?”

He asked the question, but he already knew the answer. She was telling the truth. Freud once said, ‘He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozed out of him at every pore.’ The Lieutenant was no different from any other suspect or citizen. Carter could detect a lie as if it were were a bad, lingering odor. It was a blessing and a curse.

“Williams, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“Why me?”

“Listen, I could’ve sent a couple of uniforms down here and had them put the cuffs on you,” she snapped. “I tried to do you a favor. None of us wanted it this way, but it had to be done. The circumstances surrounding your suspension were unpleasant but justifiable.This is a different situation altogether.”

“Who’s the vic?” he asked.

“Dwayne Bentley.”

Carter wished he could have forgotten about Dwayne Bentley. The thought of the child-killer’s cold body lying on the coroner’s table would make it easier to deal with, but he knew he could never truly forget. The Bentley case had introduced him to his first “red ball,” a term used in homicide for a top-priority case. When a red ball appeared, work on all other pending cases stopped. Red ball cases usually involved a murdered or injured officer, an ongoing active threat such as a rampage or spree killer, any murder with strong political or public relations repercussions, or, worst of all, child abductions.

“We found his body this morning. Everyone knows your history with him. Come down and talk to us so we can straighten this all out.”

“Do you think I could have done it?”

“No, not really,” she lied.

“I didn’t,” he answered and paused for a second before he spat out, “But I’m glad he’s dead.” He knew he shouldn’t have said it, but he meant it. That case was his first as the primary on a red ball and it changed him forever. The missing girl’s name was Marcia O’Neal, nine years old, with red spiral curls, countless freckles, and an infectious smile under her perfect little button nose. In the picture he continued to carry in his wallet, she wore a purple shirt with big yellow and white flowers.

For three weeks, finding Marcia remained the top priority of the department. She was last seen on the evening of February twenty-third when her father put her to bed, both she and the stuffed bear she slept with were gone. The clothes she had laid out for school lay in their place, and her shoes next to the bed. Having a young child himself, the ordeal gave Carter nightmares for months.

Against Carter’s wishes, Marcia’s mother made an emotional appeal on national television for her daughter’s safe return. He knew it wouldn’t help. Being one of six registered sex offenders within a ten-mile radius of Marcia’s house, Dwayne Bentley’s name popped up early in the investigation. From the first time they met, Carter knew of Bentley’s guilt.

During a house burglary in 1988, Bentley had grabbed a girl in her bedroom, placing his hand over her mouth and fondling her. He served five years in prison before his parole release in the mid-nineties. He had an extensive criminal record including twenty-four arrests for burglary, carrying a concealed weapon, and indecent exposure. In 1997, the police arrested him in Florida on a charge of fondling a child under the age of sixteen. He pled down to a misdemeanor, yet another triumph for the criminal justice system of this country.

“When was Bentley’s body found?” he asked.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

Carter remained quiet on his ride to headquarters as he replayed the events of Bentley’s capture in his mind.

Between the city police and the sheriff’s department, they had more than a hundred officers and volunteers. They searched with four-wheelers, bloodhounds, and helicopters for days following the disappearance. Under normal circumstances, there wasn’t enough evidence for an arrest warrant for Bentley. The unreliable eyewitness and degraded DNA didn’t make a strong case, but Carter didn’t doubt his guilt for one minute. He found the Honorable Judge Nathan Parms at the Pastime Lounge at much later than respectable hours. After an hour or so of Carter buzzing in his ear, and non-stop glasses of red wine over crushed ice, he signed the warrant. Without even bothering to go home or to the office, he radioed headquarters and requested the Special Tactics and Ordeal Response Management Team, or STORM Team for short. They hit the house at full force at three in the morning, but Bentley had already gone.

“You’re pretty quiet over there,” the lieutenant said, bringing his thoughts back to the situation at hand as they turned onto Mayflower Avenue.

“Were you expecting a confession?”

“You haven’t changed a bit. You know, sometimes it’s better to go along to get along in the job. You know that.”

“Still doesn’t make it right,” he answered as they approached headquarters. The Baton Rouge Police Department Headquarters sat in the Beauregard Town area of downtown Baton Rouge at 504 Mayflower Street, bordered by South Boulevard, East Boulevard, and St. Philip Street. Carter prepared to walk through those doors of homicide division he had entered and exited thousands of times. He trekked up the stairs and walked through those doors for the first time as a suspect.

The lieutenant led him to her office, where she kept him waiting forever. Bentley’s case file sat on her desk, but he knew better than to touch it. His mind drifted back again to the night they went after him.

They did everything the right way, but he still got away. When he attempted to follow up with the family, Bentley’s parents refused to answer those questions about their son, who, of course, was being unjustly persecuted. Help came from the unlikely source of Bentley’s younger

sister, Sandra. Speaking to Carter away from the family, she denied that Binky, as she had always called him, lived with them. However, she told him they did have family in Atlanta he stayed with from time to time.

Luckily, Carter had a contact in Georgia. He called Detective Wade Patrick, and they had Bentley picked up in a matter of hours.

“He didn’t fight at all,” Patrick said. “Just cried like a great big ole sissy. He is truly a piece of poor white trash. The folks we picked him up with wasn’t no better, nothing but a bunch of druggies in a meth lab ’bout to blow up.”

Patrick assured him they would all face charges of obstruction, and the district attorney, Patrick’s brother-in-law, would not allow them to plea-bargain for reduced sentences. Even though his picture had been all over the national news, Bentley’s Atlanta relatives claimed to have no idea the police were looking for him. They were lying, of course.

When Carter walked into the interrogation room, Bentley stared at him with cold, dull eyes. In the short time since he had seen him last, Bentley had dropped ten to fifteen pounds. His skin looked pulled against his skull and his face looked ashen and gaunt. Dark lines formed under his eyes, and his lips looked white and crusted over.

“Make this easy on yourself and tell us where she is.”

A smile pulled dry white lips from yellow teeth. “Who?”

Carter wanted to throw Bentley to the floor and beat him like he was somebody else’s dog, a

little saying he’d picked up from Detective Patrick. It fit the occasion perfectly. “This is not a game,” Carter said.

“I don’t play games, Boss. You like games?”

“This is not going to end well for you.”

“Why you so worried ’bout that lil girl? You want a piece of that for yourself, Boss?”

Carter shook off his baiting and said, “Dwayne, are you a killer? I mean, am I looking at a killer right now? I know accidents happen. I’m not saying you tried to kill her. We are trying to give you a way out here. Where was the last place you saw the girl?”

Bentley scratched his chin and said, “Naw, you don’t look the type to be foolin’ wit’ no lil girls. Is it boys you like, Boss? Is that how you get off?”

“Where is she?”

“How did it start, Boss? Did your uncle play with yo’ little tally whacker when you was a boy?”

Carter pounded his fist on the table and shouted, “Where is she?”

“I sure am thirsty. You think I could get a little water, Boss?”

“Water? You want water? Tell me what I want to know and you’ll get your water.”

“When I was young, I used to love to play in the water. Water is a gift from God, the best thing in the world. You like water, Boss?”

“Don’t play games with me, Bentley. You can’t win. I have no doubt you bragged to those low-class relatives of yours about what you did. When they come down from that meth high, you don’t think they’re going to tell us exactly what happened with that little girl? You’re the one with the record. Stand up and take your charge like a man!”

He hesitated a moment before answering. “That girl was alone a lot, you know, by herself. When I was young, I used to like to go out by the river. Where I lived, you know I could sneak out the window and go down there. It was only a couple hundred feet. I even—”

“Where is she?” Carter shouted and pounded on the metal interrogation table again.

“Boss, it ain’t polite to interrupt people when they is trying to tell a story. As I was saying, I even got lost back there one evening. My sister and me was playing behind the house, and we just kept drifting back further and further. ’Fore we knew it, we was by the river and it was getting dark.”

“So she’s in the river?”

“Look, Boss, all’s I’m saying is, things happen and kids get lost sometimes when they go places they ain’t got no business going. Water is a gift from God, but it can be as unforgivin’ as a woman.”

The department crews worked through the night in temperatures dipping into the low thirties to search for her body.

In Carter’s mind, he could still see the hundreds of candles from the late-night vigil at Marcia’s home nearby.

It was four-fourteen on a Wednesday morning when they found the body. Weather, river water, and decomposition ruined any type of physical evidence there may have been, but the District Attorney charged Bentley with first-degree murder.

“This man has hurt too many people,” Lieutenant Shelton said at the news conference after the arrest. “He’s hurt too many children. He took Marcia’s life, and he will pay. Dwayne

Bentley will pay.” He didn’t.

Bentley’s defense attorney outclassed the hapless, overworked prosecutor. The case never even went to trial, and the only thing Bentley pled guilty to was violating his parole. Victor O’Neal cried on Carter’s shoulder, wondering why the system had failed his daughter.

Chapter One

A single police cruiser occupied the front of the modest Granada Street home, when rookie homicide detective William Angelle arrived on scene. The neighborhood lay tucked just off from the construction overtaking Perkins Road, the price for living in the ever-expanding capital city of Baton Rouge. An old Dodge Ram pickup truck sat parked under the beige-colored open garage. Crime scene tape ran from the two sets of brown shuttered windows, on either side of the large entrance way. A female officer at the front door awaited the Detective’s arrival.The officer, who wore glasses and had short brown hair, looked more like a fifteen-year-old boy than someone sworn to protect and serve. Her nameplate read Lafleur.

“What do we have here, officer?”

“Looks like an accident. A neighbor reported a disturbance at this address, but by the time we arrived, things must have settled down. I walked the perimeter and looked in a window and saw the body on the floor.  My partner and I made entry, cleared the house and called it in. The DB is a male Caucasian,” she answered.

“Lead the way, Officer,” he said, and followed her inside the small country style home. The large steel door had three dead bolts and the brown paint gave it a wood appearance. Doors of that type were typical for keeping people out, but sometimes they were for keeping something, or someone, inside. The living room was nothing spectacular, a old brown faux leather couch and love seat. Straight ahead was a nice entertainment center with a pricey television and stereo setup. To the right was a small kitchen area that hadn’t been updated since the 70s. Angelle followed the officer through the dining area to a short hallway on the left.

“He’s in the bathroom,” she said and pointed to the end of the hall. “I’ve seen never anything like it.”

Angelle prepared for the worst, walked to the end hallway and peered inside. The sight and smell of the small cluttered bathroom could have made even the most seasoned detective’s stomach lurch. While serving in Afghanistan, Angelle had seen things sick enough to gag a maggot. They were things he could never forget, some even done by his own hand. The victim was naked from the waist down, with brown running shorts around his ankles. His thin body lay face down in a half inch of raw sewage. Angelle took out his flashlight and shone the beam into the yellow, beige, and brown mess of a room. A mixture of blood and sheetrock coated the back of the victim’s head. The wound looked as if someone had collapsed the entire back of his skull. Smashed into the wall just above the toilet was a round hole, measuring about the size of a bowling ball. Angelle figured the victim to be in his mid to late thirties. He had a small red quarter-sized splotch on the skin of his right buttock cheek. It could have been anything from a bug bite to a bad pimple, but it wasn’t a homicide. Angelle was sure of that.

“Okay,” he said and backed away from the doorway. “He’s on the toilet, something bites him, he tries to stand and slips, smashes his head…why are we even here?”

“You know the drill, Detective. Whenever we come across a body, we call y’all in.”

“Do you have an ID on this guy?” Angelle asked.

“There was some mail on the counter addressed to Dwayne Bentley.”

“Ok,” he answered and walked back down the hallway toward the door. The uniformed officer followed. Just as he was about to step outside, a question popped into Angelle’s head as he looked again at the heavily fortified door.

“How did you get through that door?” he asked Officer LaFleur.

“I keep a ram in my trunk,” she answered and smiled.

Angelle returned the smile and asked, “So he was locked in from the inside?”

“Yes sir.”

“Who called it in?”

Officer LaFleur flipped through her notepad and said, “His name is Chris Davenport.” She pointed across the street. “When we arrived, he was waiting for us. My partner is with him now.”

Angelle nodded a thank you and headed across the street to find the person who started this process. He should have been out solving real crimes instead of being stuck on a guy who probably had a heart attack after a bad bout of diarrhea. Officer Martin had large expressive brown eyes and a nice smile whenever she chose to show it. She stood next to man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties with baggy jeans, a long- sleeved white button-down, and mirrored sunglasses. With his shaggy black hair, bushy eyebrows, and thick handlebar mustache, he looked like a reject from the Village People.

“Thank you, Officer,” he said, and she joined her partner across the street.“Mr. Davenport? I’m Detective Angelle. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your neighbor?”

“Is he dead? Like, really dead?”

“I’m afraid so. Did you know the victim’s name?”

“Dwayne. Dwayne Bentley. Man, I can’t believe he’s really dead.”

“What exactly did you see, sir?”

Davenport cocked his head and said, “There was this fat man—I mean, he was huge, like sideshow fat—well, he followed Dwayne into the house. I saw ’em arguing and few minutes later, the fat man came waddling outside as fast as he could, got into his van and tore out of the place like they had a sale at the Cheesecake Factory. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Angelle nodded.

“Anyway,” the witness continued, “I just had a bad feeling about it. I went over to check on him, but when he didn’t answer, I thought something might have been wrong. That’s why I called y’all.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the man you saw leave the residence? What he was wearing or what he was driving?” Angelle questioned. He figured it was just a formality. He would get the who, what, and where for the dead man’s family to give them a bit of closure, as much closure you can have when someone dies at a young age. He would type it all up and be on to the next case by morning. “So is there anything else?”

“Did I tell you he was fat?” Davenport asked.

Angelle nodded.

“He was a white guy with brown hair and a mustache. I’ll tell you what, he drove a pretty cool van. I think it was a Dodge, but I know for sure it had a Milky Way paint job with a airbrushed mermaid on the side. It had lake pipes and  purple bubble windows.”

“Are you serious?”

“No doubt. It was a sweet ride.”

Angelle thanked him for his time and told him they might follow up for more information later. He turned to go back to his car and Davenport asked, “What did he look like?”

“Excuse me?”

“The body. He was murdered right? What did it look like?” he asked again.

“It appears to have been an accident.”

“An accident? Really?” Davenport said and hung his shoulders in disappointment.

“We’ll get back to you if we have any other questions,” Angelle said and walked away. He jotted down the address from the mailbox, 3457 Granada, as he crossed the street to join the other officers.

“Interesting fellow,” he said to Martin. “I don’t think there’s anything to this. The house was locked up tight and there are no signs of a struggle.”

Just then, a white Impala turned into the driveway. The medical examiner had finally arrived. The sooner she could give him the cause of death, the sooner he could close the dog of a case and get back to solving real homicides. When the diminutive doctor exited the vehicle, Angelle thought she looked more like a high school student than the medical examiner for East Baton Rouge Parish.

“Detective Angelle,” he identified himself as she approached.

“Dr. Taylor,” she returned. “What do we have?”

“Looks like an accident,” he answered and led her to the body, “Something caused him to stand up quickly, maybe the toilet backing up. For there, it looks like he slipped and hit his head against the wall.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said when she looked at the muck of a bathroom. “This was just what I needed to end my day.”

She stepped into the bathroom, squatted over the body and studied it for a few moments. “Blunt-force trauma to the head. I would estimate the time of death at roughly four to six hours ago, but I can give you a better idea once I get him on the table,” she answered.

“Anything jumping out at you?” he asked.

“Not from what I can tell. No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle. There is a small bruise on his right buttock. I can tell you more once I get him on the table.”

“Homicide?”

“It looks like an accidental death, but I can tell you more—”

“Right. When you get him on the table. Ma’am, I’ll need that report as soon as possible,” he answered and returned to the front of the house. There was no need for him to be there. This would have been his fourth homicide since joining the unit. Three cases up and three cases down. Granted, none of them were stone-cold whodunits, but nonetheless, he cleared them all. When he walked outside, he checked to see if Davenport was still outside trying to satisfy his morbid curiosity, but by that time, he had disappeared.

Weirdo.

Coming Soon
April 3, 2013

 

E.J.

The following is more of a journal entry than a story, but I had to name it something. This is a short account of  how the kids and I dealt with the untimely death of their mother.  One day I may fictionalize it and make it a short story or use it as is in my memoirs. 

She died on a Saturday, just after noon.

Though it’s probably not the best way to start a story, it’s where my journey began. When I was young, I feared death as if it were the grim reaper, clad in black with the razor sharp scythe. I had lost people around me, but most of them were older folks who had lived long, mostly fruitful lives. My life had been good up until that point. When the doctor told me my wife had less than six months to live, I remember staring at those brown shoes. One of the laces on the right shoe was frayed and coming undone. Surely, a man who couldn’t tie his shoes was wrong about the cancer that was overtaking my wife’s body. He had to be wrong.

Given that Cora was of the gentle and giving nature, I did my best to protect her from all the outside influences that could stifle her recovery.  Together we took great care in breaking the news to rest of the family. How do you tell a child that in six months, she may not have a mother? How do you tell a mother in six months, she may not have a child? We prepared for worst, but prayed for the best.

The worst is what you get when God blinks.

At seven years old, my daughter had a stronger will than most people three times her age. Telling her was going to be especially difficult because their personalities were so similar.  Telling my son came with its own set of problems. At four years old, how could he fully understand that mommy wasn’t coming back from the hospital? Worse yet, in time his memories of her would fade completely. She would only live in videos, pictures and stories. She made me promise I wouldn’t let him forget. I couldn’t let him forget.

When it was time, I had my mother help me talk to the family. I took the kids outside and we sat next to a huge old oak. They sat on my lap and the words came out of my mouth in broken sentences, veiled hints and half truths. I hadn’t really prepared myself for that moment because I prayed it would never come. I was failing miserably.  My mother was tasked with the duty of telling Cora’s parents. She was a rock. She had endured the death of her parents, my father’s parents, siblings and most recently, my own father. I knew her mind would be the ready writer with whatever words of wisdom God had for her. I was only able to find the right words when I hear the guttural wail that came from my mother-in-law when faced with the reality that Cora wasn’t coming home.

I pulled my children tight to my chest and said, “Mommy is in heaven with Jesus and Paw-paw Jerry and she’s not hurting any more.”

I don’t know if they cried because they truly understood or because it was the first time they had seen me cry. I rocked them and told them that everything was going to be alright. To this day I can’t explain the emptiness and insignificance in my heart. How was I going to raise these two beautiful, loving, brilliant motherless children? Her story wasn’t complete. She had so much more in life to do to be be struck down less than a week before her thirtieth birthday. She often joked that one of her grandmothers stopped counting birthdays at age twenty-nine. It still grieves my heart that she was outlived by all four of her grandparents. As I sat there with my kids, I tried to bargain with God. Cora was no saint, but what did I do to deserve to continue living? Children need their mothers. What could I do to take her place? What could I do to change things? My thoughts fell silent and all I could hear was the gentle weeping of  my children. One word finally found it’s way into my spirit.

Selfish.

I tried to rebuke this thought that surely had come from the deepest pit of hell. I tried to bind the thought and bring it under submission as the Word tells us to. I couldn’t. I couldn’t because the Word came from God. I was being selfish.  I was wrapped up in my own sadness. I was lost by my sense of loss. Heaven is the one place where everyone wants to go, but no one is in a hurry to get there.

Cora fought the good fight. She won the race. In Heaven God was telling her, “You have done well my good and faithful servant.”

I looked thankfully into the sky and thought to myself, “Free, free, free!” Her body was riddled with cancer, but she remained as beautiful as the day we married. Through chemo and radiation, she never lost one hair on her head. She never looked sick.

At the funeral, my daughter sat at my side and my son fell asleep on my lap. Her pain was gone. Even though I’d lost her physically, the children are so much like her, I know I’ll never forget her. Now, at fifteen, my daughter will say something sassy and I can’t help but realize that is exactly what Cora would have said. At twelve, my son could be the most loving and compassionate person I’ve ever met, another trait passed down from their mother. They are smart, beautiful and brilliant, just like their mother. Things have been rocky, but together we found our new normal. As one of God’s many miracles, children are resilient and they bounced back much easier than I did. All children want to do is play, so the children around them didn’t have to walk up to them with tears and condolences. All they had to ask was, “Do you want to play?”

As an adult, I was hugged, poked, prodded, pitied and analyzed more than one person should be expected to deal with. When I finally went back to work, one of my closest friends walked into my office, reared back in my seat and propped his feet up on my desk. He removed the toothpick from his mouth and said, “Bout time you came back to work.”

My first thought was to jump to feet and shout, “My wife just died!”

I resisted the urge and just looked at him. He smiled a bit, stood and walked out. Before I knew it, I found myself laughing. And after everything we had gone through, I know that is what she would have wanted.

D’Shawna