Perilous Odyssey: The Abyss of Love

By J. S. Peters

From the emotional jungle of a dysfunctional family unit, Adam Cain rises through determined self-survival to discover that lovein his caseis a form of delayed gratification. Through harsh twists on his stormy path, his life is formed by what appears to him a hostile environment where he has to fight for his very breath and where a kind word is as rare as an elephants teeth. He lives much of the time in an atmosphere of thwarted love, where it is more of a pale fire than the wondrous heat he sought. At the end of his tunnel, there is no light but murder. Yet he is hell-bent on finding his place in the sunand he does. Briefly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532044892

J. S. Peters

J. S. Peters was born in Lincoln Park, Michigan in 1930. In the mid-1940s his family moved to California where at sixteen he enlisted in the Army Air Corps and served three years as a medic. He later spent ten years in the Navy as a photographer. In 1964 he alighted in Taos, New Mexico as a bartender, where he developed an interest in Southwestern history. In Santa Fe and Alburquerque, then Denver, he pursued his interest in writing and painting.

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Copyright © 2018 J. S. Peters.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-4488-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4489-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018902630

iUniverse rev. date:   03/02/2018

CONTENTS

Foreword

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

Thirty Five

Thirty Six

Thirty Seven

Thirty Eight

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Adam and Eve Redux.

From the photographic series by Adam Cain.

Avian Rouge

Report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied …

Hamlet, Act V, Sc. II

FOREWORD

In the scenic and forested community of Eagle Rock, Colorado, a serial killer remained quietly nestled while callously murdering without interruption for ten years. It was only by happenstance his activity was unearthed by a curious and dedicated Eagle Trumpet reporter, Manley Desesperanza, who aptly labeled him, the Strangler. In recognition for his startling discovery he was elevated to investigative reporter by the editor and assigned to the case. But in turn tragically, he soon became a victim of the enraged slayer, who murdered him in cold blood for daring to expose him. The Strangler maintained an obsessive mania for seclusion, as his previously undetected chain of killings illustrated.

As demonstrated, obscurity appears to have been the Strangler’s MO. It centered mainly on his innate desire to erase or obfuscate all evidence at the crime scenes, as well as his identity and motives. Never once did he boast or mock the police department of his kill-tally via the mail, as had some earlier killers over the years. England’s Jack the Ripper comes to mind. Seventeen victims were credited to the Strangler over the years. Ten by garroting, two found in a scorched home, one bludgeoned and four by gunshot. Of the last four, one was self-defense.

Yet, I must retract my last statement, of the killer not communicating with the police. He did but once, and that was after the first ten victims were uncovered by the doomed reporter, Desesperanza. But it was more in sarcasm than boastfulness, and meant to belittle Police Chief Otto Roland following his personal t.v. pronouncement that as far as the Chief was concerned, The Strangler’s days were numbered. Looked upon as idle bluster, or that possibly the Chief’s declaration had touched a nerve, the Strangler sent him an apple pie with a wedge excised, confessing he had taken a sample to make certain it was not poisoned, being the royal food taster.

Chief Roland was also instructed to share it with detectives Holmes and Hammer, the two veteran policemen assigned to the case, whom he labeled Keystone Kops. He signed himself, Mack the Knife Sennett. He ended the missive with the banal comment, Forgive my triteness, but an apple a day keeps the fuzz at bay.

Following his gift of pie, like a sly and wise serpent he slithered out of communication. Twenty-five year veteran detectives Stanley Holmes and Milo Hammer prayed for additional letters, looking at them as possible leads or clues, but were sadly disappointed. As the pair pursued the gelid trail, they soon discovered the earlier Ohio connection of ten years previous, a torched home containing the charcoal remains of a pair of humans, which finally gave them a hint of a direction.

The killer’s distorted history was a sanguinary recipe for havoc and disaster. He stalked through the last ten years of his life with firm aim and purpose, a remorseless executioner attempting to recreate his destiny in an ambitious and macabre fashion, and in his twisted logic, correct love betrayed.

Det. S. Holmes.

ONE

It was time. Driven by his need to seek relief from his tormented psyche, Adam Cain donned his hat and jacket from the couch and went to his car. The moon was just creeping over the horizon, spectacular, gigantic and rich orange. He felt he could drive straight through it, then found himself wishing to plunge into it never to return. Escape again is what he felt, his desire of late. But there was no escape for him, his pattern being set years ago, etched in blood and flesh and flame. It was a mild September evening as he casually tooled through the moonlight, its earlier rich color fading to a soft cream as it rose higher.

Within half an hour on the outskirts of town he spotted his trophy. He slowly pulled around the corner and parked beneath a copse of cottonwoods. Emerging from his vehicle he closed his door quietly, quickly making his way toward the bus bench with a piece of clothesline wrapped around one fist. In a split second it was looped around the woman’s neck, crushing her throat in an instant. Cain experienced an immediate eruption of ecstatic joy, ejaculating at once as his breath came in short gasps.

You bitch, you’ve deceived me beyond forgiveness!

Hands trembling he snugged the ends of the rope behind her neck, lay her body prone on the bench, pulled off her panties and stuffed them into his pocket.

With his heart now serene and gratified he returned to his vehicle and drove out to his favorite Steak & Ale restaurant. Each event was his special ritual, a release from pent-up agony which became unbearable as it festered over the year. His pressing urgency now assuaged, the beast was tranquil. It was as if a huge cotton wrap had been magically drawn over his uncontrolled rage in a soft smother. It was September 10, her birthday. The annual celebration settled and soothed him. His steak was extra delicious, his Merlot never tasted more savory. He would sleep well.

Yet, something was disturbing and amiss.

TWO

Stanley Holmes and Milo Hammer, twenty-five year veteran detectives, were as different from each as night is to day. Hammer was harsh and gruff and detested murderers as the worst of criminals, declaring they should be instantly dispatched on the spot if apprehended red-handed, thus saving the taxpayer and the city the cost of an unnecessary trial. Not a few captured by him throughout his career involuntarily contributed to his Draconian dogma. If he could have organized a vigilance committee he would have happily done so, exuberantly furnishing the rope.

Holmes came from the opposite end of Hammer’s severe judicial spectrum and loved detective work as much as the crossword puzzles he labored over, and with which he compared his job. Like the words within the grid the evidence had to fit, and down to each letter. He was unbiased and thorough in all his investigations, and his reports took on the appearance of neatly wrapped literary presents, minus the bow. He took great professional pride in collaring the guilty and delivering him or her to a judge and jury to chastise as they saw fit. Once a case was over he washed his hands of it and went on with other work, his sense of justice satisfied. No vigilante, he.

The somewhat disparate pair over the prior fifteen years worked many cases together and were so proficient, they were looked upon with light humor as, Holmes and Hammer, Inc., a nod toward their fictional forerunners, Sherlock Holmes and Mike Hammer.

For the past ten years Eagle Rock was unaware of the implications of the collection of women left strangled at night on park benches while waiting for a bus. Each were dispatched a year apart, and went barely noticed except for a few relatives. They were mainly working class and mostly single, and few with relatives who were enraged enough to demand justice. In all this it appears the Strangler couldn’t have chosen a more select collection of victims, and Holmes and Hammer were aware of the killer’s dumb luck. And as usual, heavy drug cases (sometimes not so heavy), 7-11 stick-ups, gas station knock-overs, bank heists and fitful riots fared as higher priorities, as did occasional gang-fights and shoot-outs, a scattering of contract killings and violent domestic assaults which at times ended in the messy deaths of three or four people. And to add to the witches’ brew, a few schools now and then were held at bay by an addle-witted juvenile.

But it was only after the last bus patron was garroted that Manly Desesperanza, the curious cub reporter of Eagle Rock’s newspaper, the Eagle Trumpet, dimly recalled previous victims. In methodically checking back issues he found he was right. With the editor’s approval he cranked out a yellow-journalist treatment of his find, bluntly calling it, The Strangler’s Throttled Ten. The police department in turn caught some flack, and as per usual, were accused of being asleep at the helm. Needless to say, cub reporter Desesperanza was assigned to the case and soon catapulted overnight from the lowly rank of Jimmy Olsen to Clark Kentian heights.

Enter Holmes and Hammer on the scent.

Well, nodded Holmes to Hammer as he drove off in their unmarked vehicle toward breakfast. For ten years this amateur Gene Kelly has been dancing around bus stops with his jumping rope and this is the first time we hear of it.

Embarrassing.

To say the least. Although a couple of times over the years I do recall now and then hearing of a garroting as a casual joke between cops, but never put it together.

Guess the only weapon I’11need for this dude when we nail him will be a piece of clothesline. At least I’ll save the department the price of a bullet.

Better hold on to your pistola yet, macho man, cautioned Holmes. He might be packing for all we know. His choice of rope thus far seems to be reserved for his victims.

Killjoy, muttered Hammer.

Holmes found after he plowed through the somewhat lean murder reports that they were detailed with niceties he enjoyed. Such as nine of the weapons were common clothesline, each new and a bit over three feet in length, with each of the knots tied in uneven variety. Of the knots tied, three were sailor’s knots (squared), and seven were granny’s (non-squared).

So what? queried Hammer.

Well, while not exactly an earth-moving revelation, it indicates he was unlikely a man with a mariner’s background. Strictly a land-lubber. No sailor there.

Ah, elementary, my dear Holmes, quipped Hammer facetiously.

"But alimentary also, returned his partner with a pompous air. The study of the digestive process, and the results of what we devour is not to be ignored. Certain foods can be unhealthy, giving us indigestion, and even worse. ‘Tis the same with criminal cases. If the clues we feed on are wrong, we end up with erroneous assumptions, or even worse, a stomach ache. Unhealthy foods, unhealthy clues: garbage in, garbage out. Same-o, same-o, my dear Milo," he emphasized with his finger thrust pedantically into the air.

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes as Holmes pulled into a parking spot before Gino’s Coffee & Cafe, Hammer, wondered aloud, No doubt you were dying to use that word which you tripped over in this morning’s crossword?

Absolutely, partner, chuckled Holmes. You’ll make a good cop yet.

In a booth over eggs, sausage, home fries, tortillas, toast and coffee, they casually chatted.

Not one witness, mused Hammer. Amazingly lucky. In ten hits you’d think someone would have heard or seen something.

Well, he made certain to go hunting after nightfall. And he does his hasty deed away from all the busy shopping areas, patiently patrolling the outskirts of town. Reminds me of the lions on the hunt I’ve watched on the nature channels.

All were auburn haired, eight in their forties, two in their fifties, with all panties snatched. His first was choked with a belt, probably an instant decision. Rest were clotheslines.

The belt indicates a 30-inch waist.

If he works steady it must be a day job.

That’s hard to pinpoint. All the victims were tagged at different days in the week, although all on September 10. He may have a flexible schedule. Or part-time. Or retired.

Here, commented Holmes, spreading a small, roughly drawn map of the city and its environs before Hammer. I’ve noted the dates, locations and times of the bench-hits thus far.

Great. Not any of them are near Eagle Rock. All in the boondocks. Smart lion.

Think he lives in town?

Yes, but let’s not assume so. Could be an out-of-town troller.

Ten years and no one knew. The stars were in his corner, I’d say.

Hm, mused Holmes half-seriously. I wonder if we had an astrologer draw up a chart for every night he struck it would tell us anything?

I don’t want to even fantasize going there.

I agree, smiled Holmes. "Just a humorous thought. But for kicks I may check the Trumpet’s zodiac column for planetary feedback."

Well, at least we know he annually celebrates September 10.

And to be perfectly honest I believe it’s his personal way of celebrating Mother’s Day.

I lean toward the same Freudian assumption. But best we don’t spread it around. I don’t care to get any pie in the face this early in the case.

Scout’s honor, amigo. But let’s hope he takes the rest of the year off, at least until next September. We might be able to nail him by then.

"Thata boy,