Sally Smackdown

Rolling over, Sheldon Luckinbill clutches his head, wincing in pain.

“Had to be the life of the party,” he mumbles.

Sheldon stumbles to the bathroom. Turning on the tap, he inhales a bellyful of water.

Sheldon glances in the mirror at his sunken, bloodshot eyes and sallow skin, disgusted that he looks like some rummy twice his age.

Scanning his hotel room, Sheldon chuckles at the number of empty bottles, mangled plastic cups, and discarded clothes, and is glad he doesn’t have to clean the catastrophe up.

He throws his knapsack in the trunk of his worn-out Volvo, taking a last look at the Motel Six he doesn’t remember checking into.

Sheldon does remember that it was his idea to celebrate graduating from high school with a few bottles of liquor at the park. He realizes things went sideways when he started alternating shots of tequila, vodka, and rum.

A gust of early summer Indiana wind blows candy wrappers and assorted trash past Sheldon’s wrinkled pants. He reaches down, picking up a piece of paper stuck to his leg.

Turning it over, Sheldon realizes it’s a picture of a man in a photo.

The middle-aged, bushy-haired man in the Journey T-shirt is screaming and is holding up his hands in an attempt to protect himself.

Senior Detective Declan Davenport hands the photograph back to Officer Farrah Foster.

The fifty-five-year-old, balding, pudgy veteran of the Holland, Indiana police force takes what he’s seen into consideration. He’s occasionally called Blue because of his predominately surly disposition, but his track record for arrests is incontestable.

“No wonder somebody threatened him, he’s wearing a Journey T-shirt. But you’re right, Foster. Whoever he is, he looks scared to death. And you say some kid found the photo and brought it in?”

Farrah nods excitedly, her blonde bob covering her bright blue eyes.

“He says he found it outside of his hotel room. My gut says it could be part of a gang dispute or a gambling debt,” Farrah concludes.

“Well, my gut has got thirty more years of seasoning than yours. And there aren’t any gangs around here. I’ll tell you what. I’ll check his knapsack.”

“We already looked through it,” Farrah replies. “He was carrying a few wrinkled T-shirts, a pair of swim trunks, a gram or so of suspicious powder, and a cell phone with some regrettable party photos on it. You know, typical teenager stuff.”

“It has to be vouchered anyway. If he gets too antsy, charge him with possession and let him call a lawyer. That should keep him entertained until we can figure out what’s going on.”

Half an hour later, Declan enters the interrogation room, his expression darkening as he sits down across from Sheldon.

He pushes a white envelope across the table at Sheldon.

“What’s this?”

“Something you won’t like.”

Sheldon opens the envelope, pulling out several pictures.

Gasping, he drops the envelope.

“We found these pictures in your knapsack, Shelley,” Declan declares.

The man is naked, bound by his hands and feet in one of the pictures. He’s hogtied in another. In a third, he’s tied spread eagle. His eyes are bulging out and his tongue hangs from his mouth.

“He’s clearly dead in that last picture, Shelley. How did he get that way, and where is his body?”

“I swear, I don’t know who this dude is! These aren’t my pictures! Like I told Officer Foster, I just happened to pick up a picture.”

“You’re going to have to come up with a better explanation than that, Shelley.”

Declan motions Farrah outside.

“I looked through that knapsack myself.”

“Always check for fake pockets,” Declan replies. “Then check again. Despite his obvious guilt, I don’t think this kid is going to crack.”

“He hardly seems like a hardened criminal, Declan.”

“Then you drill him. I’m going home early.”

“Now? But we need to find out who the victim is.”

Declan smirks. “Okay, since you want to be a detective, you can do the scut work. Remember, you hold the top card. If Luckinbill doesn’t confess in an hour, you can hold him on possession, or show me you’re ready to be a detective by booking him for murder.”

“But we need a body,” Farrah says.

“Not if I say we don’t.”

Officer Luther Light drops more files on Farrah’s already crowded desk. Squat, with a weight lifer’s physique offset by boyish features, thirty-two-year-old Luther shares a common trait with Farrah – both want to get to the rank of detective before they’re thirty-five. Having grown up in town, he’s familiar with Holland’s few troublemakers.

“That kid looked really scared when he was headed for prison. He’s never had so much as a traffic ticket,” Luther says. “You would think a newbie like that would fess up just to keep from being put in with the hard cases. I would.”

“Me too,” Farrah admits. “But I’m still not convinced he’s a killer. His fingerprints aren’t on any of the pictures.”

“Where’s Detective Davenport?”

“He checked out early.”

Luther whistles in disbelief. “At a time like this? I never pegged him as a shirker. It’s not like Holland is Murderville, U.S.A. I don’t think we’ve had more than a dozen disappearances, let alone murders since I joined the force. Davenport just handed you the biggest case we’ve had in a decade.”

“Yeah, and I’ve been wondering why.”

“He’s maxed out in terms of rank, so maybe he feels there’s nothing to gain except another commendation. However, if you close the case and get the credit, then you’ll owe him,” Luther replies, raising his eyebrows like a playful prankster.

“Ew,” Farrah responds, shuffling through the missing persons posters.

Farrah lets out a quiet gasp.

She shows Luther the poster.

“Look familiar?”

“Pardee Moore… Yeah, that’s the guy in the picture.”

“This missing person poster is eight years old,” Farrah notes.

“Sure, I remember Pardee now. He worked for the local Allied Moving Company. Thought he was a lady’s man, but mostly, he was a mouthy drunk. I used to shoo him away from The Harmony Hops Bar once in a while. Let me see that picture Luckinbill had again.”

Farrah hands Luther the evidence bag with the photo. Luther carefully plucks out the picture.

“Yeah, that’s Pardee Moore all right. He was usually more clean-shaven than in this shot. Look over Pardee’s shoulder…You see that stone marker in the background?”

“Looks like it could be a gravestone,” Farrah replies.

“I recognize it from when I was a kid. It’s the mile marker along the hiking path in the Morse Sanctuary.”

The primal screams in John Lennon’s song, “Well, Well, Well,” tear through Declan’s complacent sleep.

“WELLLLL! ….WELLLLL!”

The long-legged redhead stretched out in bed next to Declan groans. “Great ringtone, Blue. Answer your phone, or I’ll make you scream like Lennon.”

Glancing at the clock, Declan fumbles for his phone,

“It’s four a.m.! Somebody had better be dead!”  

His adrenalin stirs as he digests Farrah’s rapid-fire message.

“What? Who authorized digging up Morse Sanctuary?... The Chief... All right, I’m on my way…”

He looks at the redhead, drinking in her intoxicating beauty.

“What’s the matter, Blue? Did Mrs. O’Connor’s cat go missing again?” she asks.

“No. They found Pardee Moore. And he’s not alone.”

Counting the number of white sheets covering the excavated bodies, Lane Coventry, the County Coroner, tries to contain his excitement.

“You know how long I’ve been County Coroner, Luther?”

“A long time. Since I was a kid.”

The fecklessly dressed, granite-chinned coroner smiles. “Twenty-eight years. I don’t think I’ve seen a total of a dozen murder victims in all that time.”

“Well, you hit the jackpot today,” Farrah replies. “Is there anything you can tell us?”

“The bodies date back ten years and are as recent as the last two years. Several show signs of having been refrigerated, so they were moved here. Whoever did this is a pro. There are no hairs or fingerprints. Most of the victims were strangled, I’d say by somebody extraordinarily strong and extremely angry. The killer also appears to have been left-handed. How old did you say Sheldon Luckinbill is?”

“He’s eighteen,” Farrah replies. “And he’s right-handed.”

“And you’re willing to believe he started murdering people when he was in third grade?”

Champagne Charlie Chase, Harmony Hops Bar’s jovial bartender fills Declan’s empty glass with more Scotch.

“Full day, eh? I thought you’d be happy that you just cleared up a dozen murders.”

Declan gives Champagne Charlie a pained smile. “There were so many bodies I felt like I was standing at the end of a conveyor belt.”

“You should feel happy you got Sheldon Luckinbill off the streets before he struck again,” Champagne Charlie returns. “Take a look around. A lot of folks are grateful for what you’ve done. In fact, this drink is from that looker at the end of the bar.”

A sultry woman with long, flaming red hair and penetrating blue eyes gives Declan an unabashed, flirty wink, then turns her attention back to her nerdy-looking date.

Rising from his seat, Declan nods at her as he leaves.

“I know you must hear this all of the time, but you’re really beautiful,” Bowen Kimball says to the redhead.

“I can never hear it enough,” she replies.

Bowen drains his drink. “How tall are you, anyway?”

“Five foot eleven. I missed being Amazonian by an inch, hence the heels.”

The dorky-looking salesman’s wide eyes blink sporadically behind his bifocals. “Wow. I always wanted to be that tall. I loved basketball as a kid, but I never got onto the court.”

“You shouldn’t let small obstacles deter you, no pun intended,” The redhead says in a husky tone. “I wanted to be a female wrestler, and boom, Salome Schickhaus became Sally Smackdown.”

“I bet you were good,” Bowen says.

“There’s only one way to prove it to you, hon.”

Bowen tries to smile confidently as Sally ties his feet to the bedpost.

“The ropes are a bit tight,” he whines.

“Now, now, Bowen. We both agreed that the winner would get to do whatever they wanted to with the loser.”

“But I barely moved before you pinned me, and none too gently. Just what is it you’re doing, anyway?” Bowen asks, blinking uncontrollably.

Sally daintily picks up a camera with her left hand.

“Just taking a few shots for laughs.”

Bowen swallows hard. “So how come I’m not laughing?”

Declan bursts through the front door of the elegant two-floor Tudor house. Walking past an offended Sally, he heads toward the basement.

Declan opens up the freezer, grimacing at the sight of Bowen Kimball’s battered body.

“At least I didn’t have to fold this one in half or cut off his legs to get him in there,” Sally comments.

“Are you out of your fricken mind?

“Why yes, Blue. Two psychiatrists verified it,” Sally calmly answers.

“Do you know how hot you are now?”

“Thanks for the compliment, Blue.”

“You know what I’m talking about. You had to kill again, didn’t you?”

“The voices told me to.”

“None of this would be necessary if you hadn’t dropped that photo outside of the hotel,” Declan says. “I forbid you to go to the Motel Six anymore.”

Sally giggles. “Sure, Kojack, I’ll stay away. Too bad. It’s a good hunting ground. I met Skipper Swain, one of my favorites, at the Motel Six bar. He insisted we go back to his room. Skipper thought I’d be impressed with the décor and the continental breakfast. Too bad he never got to eat breakfast. I should have left him at the hotel, but I wanted to play with his body some more. I was a bit preoccupied when I carried Skipper out in the bathroom rug, so I didn’t realize I’d dropped a photo of Pardee Moore. It’s actually a blessing that kid Sheldon picked it up. I’d totally forgotten I was carrying around so many photos of my male friends with me. Now I leave them home. So, this time, when I met a guy at Harmony Hops, I remembered the lesson I’d learned, and I brought him back to my place. So, everything has turned out all right after all. And I’m always careful to rotate my stories, so nobody knows who I am.”

“Who were you this time?”

“Sally Smackdown, lady wrestler.”

“Not Miranda, the Maltese model?” Declan asks.

“That’s our private story, Blue.”

“Who are you really?”

“I’ve been Gertha Gorge, Charity Griswald, Opal Rockefeller, and Saffron Valencia, among others. Let’s just say I was born rich, bored, attractive, and homicidal.”

Sally winks at Declan, heading upstairs to the kitchen.

“Don’t turn your back on me while I’m talking to you!” Declan yells, following her.

“You want a scotch and soda?”

“I could use five or six.”

Sally mixes the drink, handing it to him with her left hand. “This will float your boat. And I’ve got plenty more where this came from.”

Declan guzzles his drink. “You can’t bury this one at the Sanctuary. It’s a very active crime scene thanks to you.”

“Fine. I’ll keep him on ice until I can find another suitable spot. The Sanctuary is kind of full anyway.”

Declan slaps his hand against his bald head in frustration.

“Do you know how close we were to being discovered?”

“Thanks to you, the kid got the blame,” Sally replies. “Once he was in jail, I thought it was safe to go back to work.”

“Well, it’s not. You have to stop, period. Understand?”

“You might as well ask me not to breathe,” Sally replies. “It’s a compulsion, a need. The voices have to be fed. When I feed them, they go away for a while. Besides, this is a good arrangement for you too. You get their money, and you can ransack their places for valuable goodies hours before the real cops show up.”

“I should have taken you down when I met you.”

Sally smiles coquettishly. “Lucky for me I’m as good a lover as a killer, eh?”

“I’m starting to wonder if it’s worth having to run around like a dancing bear in a circus in order to cover up for your blood lust.”

“Oh, boo hoo. I had to give up my full set of Pardee Moore pictures, so you could use them to frame Sheldon Luckinbill. It was almost worth the look on your face when you rushed in here, begging me for them. But as a result, I needed replacements, so that’s how the wimp wound up in the Whirlpool.”

“Who is he?” Declan asks.

“Bowen Kimball… You’re going to love this… He sells refrigerators! Don’t worry, he’s out here on his own. His family lives in Utah.”

“And what about his co-workers? He’s still going to generate a missing person’s report.”

“And he’ll stay missing, Blue.”

Declan coughs, sucking for air.

“…I wish you’d stop calling me that…”

“Like another drink, Blue?”

“You didn’t…”

“Sorry, the voices told me that it’s time for you to go. You made them nervous, and you know what happens when they get upset.”

Declan drops to his knees, choking.

“…You won’t get away with this…”

“Of course, I will. I’ll take you back to your apartment later and make it look like a suicide. Then I’ll get a little nip and tuck, change my hair color and address, and my work will go on.”

Sally pats Declan on the head.

“Sorry to have to break up the band, Blue.”

Farrah puts Declan’s belongings in a box, shaking her head at the plethora of awards and citations.

Luther anxiously hovers around Declan’s desk.

“You look like you have something to say, Luther.”

“That kid, Sheldon Luckinbill? He got shanked in the shower this morning.”

“That’s horrible. I still find it hard to believe Sheldon killed Pardee Moore, or anyone else. And Declan…”

Luther grunts in agreement. “I bet the case got to him. Especially after he found out there were a dozen bodies buried at the Sanctuary on his watch. We could charge Luckinbill with four murders but that meant eight were still unsolved. He probably started obsessing that there were other killers out there and held himself responsible.”

Exhaling heavily, Farrah picks up Declan’s coffee cup labeled “Best Detective.”

“What are you going to do with that stuff?” Luther asks.

“Store it for now. He didn’t have any relatives and his ex-wife died years ago.”

Luther looks quizzically at the small photo of a redheaded beauty on Declan’s desk.

“So, who’s this?”