All These Evils Come

By Joey Hendrix

Gideon thought he could hide from death. He was wrong.

Detective Gideon’s hopes of finding peace are crushed when it appears a killer is targeting young women in Savannah. From the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan to homicides on the streets of Atlanta, evil has followed Gideon his entire adult life, taking friends, foes, and the woman he loved. To prevent more death, Gideon must plunge himself into the darkness he so desperately wants to escape as he tries to hunt down the killer while fighting through political tension and the personal horrors that consume him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joey Hendrix
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990693420

Joey Hendrix

Joey Hendrix is the author of All These Evils Come, the first novel in the Detective Gideon series. Hendrix is a former Captain in the United States Army and a combat veteran of the war in Afghanistan. During his eight years in the United States Army he served in the Infantry and the Military Police Corps. Hendrix has a bachelor’s degree in sociology with a concentration in criminology from the University of North Alabama. He also holds a master’s in international peace and conflict resolution. He currently resides in Pasadena, California and attends Fuller Theological Seminary. He loves SEC Football, IPAs, cigars, and good conversation.

Book preview

Prologue

The stranger studied her every attractive feature and flaw as she took deep, peaceful breaths. Her perfectly proportioned 36C breasts rose and fell with grace as she was ushered into the solace of dreams. Invading her life and watching her every move without her knowledge had given him a steady thrill of adrenaline, but watching her sleep excited him even more. By succeeding in entering this vulnerable place, he had proven that he alone was worthy of sharing such a sacred moment.

What he liked most about watching her sleep was that it allowed him to see her raw and unmasked beauty. No hairspray. No makeup. No eyeliner. She wore none of the accessories that would diminish her value. This full exposure made her look especially captivating. She was like an angel, altogether lovely. Pure.

Standing in her bedroom he felt overwhelmed, lost in euphoria with no space or time. A power he had not felt in years was awakening inside him. This was where he belonged, and he had no desire to leave. His body tingled with senses he couldn’t explain. His heart pounded with passion and arousal.

He’d been waiting for this moment since his eyes caught sight of her. Temptation now enticed him to stroke every inch of her toned body, but he would have to wait. Besides, he was still enjoying this precious time just gazing at her. He wanted to soak it all in, to savor every moment. There was no reason to rush.

He had been following her for four weeks now, trying to absorb every detail of her life and learn all he could about her. Doubtful voices had filled his mind and almost kept him from acting on his desires, but the longing to be near her consumed him.

Prior to this night he had spent two evenings surveying her home and getting comfortable with the layout—this was their first moment together. When his search revealed she took prescription sleeping pills, he’d started planning this night, confident he could walk into her room and watch her with little chance of her waking.

Her face was so beautiful. He wanted to caress it. Her hair was so soft. He wanted to run his fingers through it. Her striking figure, barely covered by a sheet, was stimulating and divine. He wanted to feel his own body pressed against it. He wanted to curl up beside her, feel the tenderness of her skin, and smell the Bath and Body Works Sweat Pea Shampoo and Conditioner in her blond hair. He wanted to pull away the sheets and lift up the light blue Victoria’s Secret ribbon trim nightie she was wearing. He wanted to see if she shaved or if she just kept herself neatly trimmed. He wanted all of her. But he had to be smart. Even the power of Ambien could be weakened by a stranger’s touch.

And that was all he was for now: a stranger. But soon, very soon, Courtney would learn he was much more. For now, he would have to remain satisfied just watching her.

Chapter 1

The images were coming alive in the quietness of my dreams. I could see Courtney with her family and friends. The location was vague, as most dreams are, but the vibrant smile I had only seen in pictures couldn’t be more vivid. The life within her seemed to be the only source of light in the darkness that surrounded her. There was no mistaking her beauty and tender spirit. She was radiant. Lovely. Free. Suddenly a fierce black fog swallowed the splendor and sweetness of the intimate scene, and Courtney’s fragile life collapsed under the weight of an elusive figure.

I shook in fear as the night played cruel tricks on my mind. I was drowning in terror and pulled into the shadows while I slept. A violent ocean surrounded me. The unseen force pulled me into the raging waters and dragged me under.

I awoke in panic, gasping for air and soaked in sweat. I jolted upright, struggling to catch my breath. When I finally did, I chugged the glass of water by my bed, but it did nothing for my dry mouth. The burden of a crime I could not solve accompanied by malicious insomnia was bad enough, but guilt was the predator washing away all my hope and strength.

A battle I thought I had escaped was consuming me yet again. Tonight I had gone to bed at ten o’clock only to lie restless for over an hour. Just like nights prior, I’d found myself wide awake just past midnight. Eventually I’d drifted back to sleep, but the nightmares ensured peace didn’t last. I had tried three different types of sleeping pills in the past month. None of them helped.

I put the empty glass back on the nightstand. My alarm clock burned bright, bold red: 2:12. I flipped over on my stomach, buried my face in my pillow, and sank into the confusion of unanswered questions. Another day of exhaustion awaited me, but the physical toll was nothing compared to my emotional and mental suffering. I was sure those at work noticed something different, but only I knew the depth of my affliction.

In the five years I spent in the Army and the seven years I had spent in law enforcement, I had seen the world at its ugliest: death, war, murder, and cruelty. I had come to see the world as a place void of color, light, and love. I had found my purpose in this world only by confronting the evil others refused to acknowledge, but that burden had become too heavy to endure. It had left me lost, worn down, and alone. Something had to change.

I got up, threw my pillow across the room, and plopped on the edge of the bed. There was no use in wallowing in self-pity. I got dressed, grabbed my badge, put my standard issue 9mm Beretta on my hip, and then headed out to eat. Walking through downtown Savannah early in the morning was a great way to fight restlessness, and it made me feel more in tune with my surroundings. If every city had its own unique pulse and rhythm, then Savannah was a genre of its own. It was unlike any other city I’d been to. Though a drifter too new to set roots, I felt I’d been able to find the timing of the city’s beat. Still a stranger, however, I was left to grieve alone as the world around me kept its pace.

The chilly March night carried winter’s last fighting breeze. Spring had arrived, and the azaleas, in full bloom, looked beautiful under the shadows cast by historic homes and streetlights. The Spanish moss hanging from the Georgia pines gave Savannah a soft, romantic touch during the day but created an eerie, unsettling ambiance during these dark hours. The city’s legacy of ghost stories found a perfect setting here and created a creepiness capable of persuading even those who didn’t believe in ghosts to avoid the streets at night.

The terror I was dealing with outweighed any ghost story I’d ever heard. Those haunting stories might hold the allure of dark fantasy, but what ought to scare people is mankind’s affinity for evil. Unlike most, I had witnessed the worst of humanity. And, once again, I was living in it.

I walked about a mile to Wheatley’s Diner, a mom-and-pop place I had been frequenting since my move to Savannah. Rose greeted me before I could even take a seat. Her Southern accent was sweet and comforting.

Morning, darlin’. The usual?

I mustered a smile. Good morning, Rose. Yes please.

The usual consisted of coffee, three scrambled eggs, two slices of bacon, and a Belgian waffle. It was the perfect combination to meet all the requirements of my appetite: healthy brain food, greasy goodness, something sticky sweet, and some much-needed caffeine. I would work it all off later.

From what I gathered, Rose was the younger sister of Mama Wheatley. Her sixty-plus years carried with it the figure you would expect of a woman who worked in a diner every day. Her bulky frame was matched with big hair dyed a color best described as pink, and she wore enough makeup and pastel-colored eye shadow to give the diner the paint job it deserved. Though she wasn’t exactly easy on the eyes, she was always friendly and kind to me. She had once made reference to me being a detective, something I assumed she had learned from the newspapers she was constantly reading, but she never pushed the subject.

On mornings I was in a mood for conversation—which was rare lately—she never bothered me with personal inquisition or nagging questions, though she often did with other costumers. It was as if we had an unspoken understanding of my need for public solitude, and she had no issues providing it.

On this particular day I stayed a little longer than normal and drank several cups of coffee as I stared out the window at Broughton Street. The truck drivers, shift workers, and deliverymen still moving around proved even a town as small as Savannah never completely relaxed, though it wasn’t quite a city that never slept.

Perhaps it was better defined as a city with insomnia. Though it was supposed to be a place of rest, it was always too agitated for such silent stillness. As an ambulance came speeding by with lights flashing, I found myself wondering if the city could ever find true peace. Or maybe I was wondering if I ever would.

I finished a final cup of coffee, paid my tab, and wished Rose a good day. Knowing I had no chance of getting more sleep, I made my way to the office carrying the weight of my dilemma. I had come to Savannah in an attempt to find some kind of solace, and maybe even to rediscover myself, but despite the relative serenity of the city, I still found myself in a hopeless struggle. It was a struggle I could walk away from at any time, but doing so meant abandoning Courtney and I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I didn’t care what anyone else said. She had not committed suicide, and I was going to prove it.

Chapter 2

I thought Savannah would offer the peace I couldn’t find in Atlanta. Though the city was quaint and calm, I felt anything but.

The image of Savannah Police Barracks was one of sentiment and serenity. The structure was built on Oglethorpe Street in 1870, and though the inside had been remodeled a few times and an addition had been constructed in the back at some point, the front had remained unchanged through the years. Just walking by the place produced a nostalgic feeling for the history of Savannah’s police department. On the side facing Oglethorpe Street, two classic police cruisers—a 1947 brown-and-gold Stylemaster and a 1953 black sedan—were parked outside the front of the building to mark the legacy and heritage of Savannah’s boys in blue. The atmosphere inside the organization, however, was one of political turbulence and chaos.

Other than the desk sergeant and a couple of patrolmen waiting for the night shift to end, the place was empty. The building had an ancient, decrepit elevator that wasn’t worth the time even on the most tiring days. I took the three flights of stairs up to the Criminal Investigation Unit. Half of the floor belonged to Violent Crime Squad, plus Robbery, Financial Crimes, and Special Victims. It was an open area which allowed for easy communication. Forensics had the other half. Just like the last several weeks, I started the morning with the whole place to myself.

It had been over five weeks since the Savannah Police Department had officially ruled Courtney Nelson’s death a suicide. As lead detective on the case, I opposed the decision. Something about the case had left me unsettled. Despite my plea for more time, those with rank prevailed. When I had realized I was fighting a losing battle I made copies of everything I had pertaining to the case. The original file was taken away and put with other closed cases, likely to never be seen again.

It wasn’t much, but I kept the copies in a manila folder at the bottom of a locked drawer. The folders hanging from the drawer kept it concealed when open. The one gift of insomnia was the ability to look over the case on these early mornings while the office was empty. I knew some of my superiors would be furious if they caught me working on a closed case, but I wasn’t too concerned about the repercussions for myself. I didn’t plan on being around long enough for it to matter.

Courtney Nelson had been a graduate student at Savannah College of Art and Design, majoring in architecture. She’d arrived the previous winter semester, so she hadn’t lived in Savannah long. She was found naked and dead in the tub of her downtown studio apartment on February 15. Autopsy reports indicated she’d died late Valentine’s Day evening. There were no signs of a struggle and no signs of breaking and entering. Her parents said she would have never hidden keys outside her house.

When looking into cases like this one, investigators usually start with people closest to the victim. Courtney hadn’t been in a serious relationship for more than a year, but she was very close to her family. I’d investigated every possible lead, looked into every personal connection in her life, and talked with her parents at length on several occasions. Nothing I’d learned about her seemed to fit the profile of a young woman who would take her own life. However, I had learned some things about the city that revealed possible motivations for the case to be closed so quickly.

Savannah College of Art and Design, known as SCAD, had a major influence on the politics of the city. SCAD, being a private institution with the backing of wealthy investors, had been pouring millions of dollars into the city since the early ‘80s in order to rebuild and refurbish much of the downtown area. The efforts had turned things around and improved the economy as more tourists became drawn to the city. It also didn’t hurt that students were willing to pay top dollar to get into one of the country’s highest-rated art schools. Right or wrong, because of the impact the school had on the Savannah, there was still a powerful link between school administrators and the city’s politicians. An unsolved murder—especially a murder involving a young SCAD student—would tarnish the quaint, peaceful image of the school and the city. Though the city had a high crime rate, those crimes rarely touched white suburban students.

I was convinced that Captain Hargrove’s decision to quickly close Courtney’s case as a suicide was motivated by this political dynamic. Captain Hargrove, a twenty-three-year veteran of the Savannah Police Department, had only recently been given the lead job with the Criminal Investigations Unit. Though he’d had a meritorious career highlighted by serving as a patrol supervisor as well as a SWAT team and bomb squad supervisor, he had never been a detective. He was ultimately responsible for the unit, so he worried about having an open investigation on his desk for any length of time. I wasn’t sure if his supervisors were putting pressure on him or if he was putting pressure on himself. It was probably a little of both, but either way there was no excuse. It had been his decision, and he was wrong.

Just before seven o’clock, I heard someone coming up the stairs. None of the remodeling efforts had corrected the popping and cracking of the steps leading to the third floor. The first person to come in the door was Philip Agostino.

Gideon, what’s up? Hey, you watch the game last night? The Hawks had the Raptors beat. Lost it in the fourth quarter. Fucking Toronto. I doubt they’ll make the playoffs.

No. Didn’t see it.

Agostino knew basketball was one sport I did not care to watch or play; he simply didn’t do well with silence. He was half-Italian with dark skin, dark hair, and a short, stocky build. He had a hint of an Italian accent and was known to launch a fair share of expletives when he got upset. Despite occasionally missing the obvious in social situations, he was a great detective and always spoke his mind.

As he talked about the game, I put away Courtney’s file and pulled out an assault case that had hit my desk the afternoon before. A seventy-two-year-old female had been attacked in her home during a break-in. Apparently the intruder had not expected her to be in the house or simply didn’t care. The assault had taken place shortly after Mrs. Weaver, the homeowner, had returned from her weekly Bible study. At approximately 9:15 p.m. a couple of neighbors noticed her front door was open and some of her lights were on. They knew Mrs. Weaver had a habit of going to bed at nine every night. When they went to check on her, they found her unconscious.

The neighbors called 911, and both a patrol and an ambulance showed up. Mrs. Weaver was taken to the hospital and treated for minor abrasions on her head. The wounds weren’t too severe, but doctors were concerned because of her age so they kept her overnight. When I’d gone to see her at the hospital to get a statement, she was resting, per doctor’s orders, so I’d decided I would wait another day.

According to the patrolmen’s report, the intruder had broken in through the back door and hadn’t taken much, but seemed to know exactly where to go. Some jewelry and a small amount of cash were taken from a bedroom drawer. Interviews with family and friends revealed that the jewelry was worth more in sentimental value, as they were all gifts from loved ones, mainly Mrs. Weaver’s late husband.

According to statements, Mrs. Weaver was a very hospitable individual who always had people at her house: ladies from the church, neighborhood kids, friends of the family, and so on. I was fairly certain the intruder was someone in Mrs. Weaver’s life, but because she knew a lot of people it could be difficult to narrow it down.

Not wanting to waste more time, I called the hospital to work out a time to visit Mrs. Weaver. I was shocked when they told me she had insisted on being released, but this provided the opportunity to take a look at scene of the crime with the victim. I grabbed my keys and my notebook and headed out to her house, thankful for the chance to escape the office.

The break-in had taken place just off of Waters Street and Anderson. It wasn’t quite the worst of the city’s slums, but it was close. Savannah is a unique city in many respects, but one characteristic that sets it apart is the way different socioeconomic neighborhoods mix and mingle to form a patchwork quilt with no pattern. Despite the geographical proximity, it seemed the different subcultures and races were destined to be set apart.

I took a right off of Broughton Street and drove south into a neighborhood where most of the commercial buildings were boarded up. I imagined back in the ‘60s and ‘70s the community had itself a thriving little business center, but now the hardware stores, grocery stores, dress shops, and shoe stores were nothing but decrepit relics. I imagine they were constant reminders that the neighborhood’s significance was a thing of the past.

I parked my car a few yards from the corner of Ott and 31st. Mrs. Weaver’s house was the second on the left. Most of the houses in the area looked as if no one had really bothered to take care of them in several years. Mrs. Weaver’s house, at 1767 31st Street, was one of the few receiving the appropriate care and attention. It was made of Raleigh Tavern brick and had golden brown shutters. The grass was perfectly manicured, and she had dozens of well-groomed rose bushes around the house. I’d always believed a well-kept yard was a good sign of a well-kept life. I was anxious to see if my theory proved true.

As I walked up to the door and knocked, I noticed a small group of guys gathered on the corner underneath a basketball hoop, watching me. I figured the oldest couldn’t be more than sixteen. Though I was wearing black slacks and a dark solid dress shirt with a matching tie, I was pretty sure the weapon on my side gave me away as a cop. I knew cops weren’t trusted in this area so I wasn’t shocked that my presence caused them to stop their game and observe.

History was not the only unkind character to this area. The current bureaucracy had its own share of guilt. Government institutions have a way of creating a set of priorities that caused some people to be overlooked. Natural resentment was often taken out on law enforcement, as they were often the extension of the government giving the most attention to neighborhoods like these.

There were plenty of cops who genuinely cared for the neighborhood, but years of tension made it hard to prove sympathy to those of a different color in inner city Savannah. Some of us tried to work through that tension, but the tides of discord that divide are always stronger than the bridges of unity meant to cross them.

I waited patiently at the door for an answer and caught myself taking a look over my shoulder. One of the downsides to being a cop is you always have to remain guarded. The job is dangerous regardless of city or location. Often you feel as though you are walking around with a target on your back, but those who make the greatest difference are those who can let their guard down enough to create a bond with those they have sworn to protect. This was a lesson I had learned in both Iraq and Afghanistan, and I would never forget it.

One of the guys hanging out on the corner was holding a pit bull on a leash. I didn’t know much about dogs, but I still thought this might be a good opportunity for conversation, so I walked over to them. They all looked very tense.

Hey, is that a full-blooded pit?

The boy holding the pit’s leash was the only one to respond. He took a couple steps toward me as I approached. Yeah man. Whys you axen?

The pit began to bark viciously, letting me know I was intruding in his territory and he was itching to violently defend it. The boy holding the pit did nothing to calm the dog down, a sure sign he didn’t care for my presence either, and I wasn’t sure he intended to keep a hold of the leash.

"Oh, just wondering. I’ve been thinking about getting a dog, and … well, your dog