Minutes to Midnight

By James Glass

Detective Rebecca Watson of the Eugene Falls Police Department is getting ready for her Drill Weekend in the Navy Reserves when she gets the call from her lieutenant. He wants her to check a crime scene of a serial killer who was severely injured during an automobile accident while transporting bodies in 55-gallon drums. Her boss believes this is an open and shut case, but upon further investigation Watson realizes the serial killer had a partner. While working the case, she is activated in the Navy onboard the USS Vella Gulf.

While working onboard the ship, she uncovers there may be a serial killer on the Vella Gulf who is murdering prostitutes in each port. Nothing can prepare her for the gauntlet of turmoil and trouble that may lead to her demise by uncovering the true motive behind the murders.

Relentlessly pursuing two unknown serial killers, one at home and one at sea throws Watson into emotional disorder as she fights to keep control—driven to bring these monsters to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Glass
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005813451

James Glass

James Glass retired from the United States Navy after 22 years of service. After retiring, he exchanged his rifle for a pen. He and his family moved back to the Florida Panhandle. He’s married and has two children. James is also the President of the Panhandle Writer's Group.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Samantha, Sam for short, lay on my bed as I dressed for my Navy Reserves weekend. She’s a four-year-old German shepherd, and my best friend.

I rubbed her belly. Who’s a good girl?

My cell chirped. I glanced at the caller ID. Lieutenant McVay.

Whatcha need El-Tee? I asked, lacing my jungle boots, then tucking my BDU pants into the blousing straps. Sam leaned over the bed and gave me a slobbery kiss.

Stop that. Her breath reeked.

What? McVay asked.

Sorry. Not you. I rubbed Sam on the belly again.

There was a short pause. Did he think someone was here? He cleared his throat. Can you get out of your drill weekend? Could really use your help.

My name is Rebecca Watson. When I’m not pulling weekend warrior duty in the Navy Reserves, I’m a homicide detective for the Eugene Falls Police Department.

What’s the emergency?

You been watching the news?

No, I said. Too depressing.

There was a high-speed pursuit on I-10. A Dodge Viper crashed into a van. There’s at least two dead.

Were both vehicles running from the law?

Not sure, but you can ask when you get on scene.

Florida Highway Patrol should be taking control of the scene. So why aren’t they? Before he could answer I asked, What is it you’re not telling me?

The van was transporting three 55-gallon drums. When the collision happened, one of the drums rolled onto the interstate, the lid partially tore open. The trooper on scene shined his flashlight inside and discovered the corpse of a woman.

We have a crime scene? When did this go down?

Shortly after eight.

The alarm clock on the dresser next to the bed indicated eight-forty-five.

The other two drums contain bodies?

Don’t know. The crime scene unit is en route.

Anything else?

The driver of the van sustained numerous injuries. Life Flight airlifted him to a local hospital.

You said man. No I.D. on our suspected killer?

Correct. He paused. I could hear the sound of drumming fingers. Can you get out of your drill weekend?

This would be the third time Iʼd cancelled over the past nine months. We’d been shorthanded in homicide since my partner’s departure. Death never took a day off, but if I kept avoiding my duty to the Navy, they might decide to activate me. Farfetched but not implausible.

A crack of thunder boomed so close to the house the walls shook.

I’ll look at the evidence and get back to you. Maybe I can close this case before four. Four?

That’s the latest I can check in for duty.

Okay. And if you can’t?

I’ll call the Reserve Center.

Chapter 2

I hopped into my father’s vintage 1986 Jeep Renegade, God rest his soul. The wipers made a thwump, thwump, thwump noise, trying to keep up with the torrential downpour. Not good, as weather can wreak havoc on a crime scene. I hoped the responding officers were able to protect what evidence hadn’t washed away.

By the time I reached the scene, vehicles clogged the westbound lanes. I veered onto the shoulder, parked behind three Florida Highway Patrol SUVs, and killed the engine. One trooper wearing a rain slicker directed traffic. At least the downpour had dwindled into a drizzle. Blue skies peeked between gaps in the clouds allowing random rays of sunshine to break through.

Wind whipped my hair as I exited the Jeep. I opened the door, snagged a rubber band from the center console, and pulled my hair into a ponytail.

As I walked along the pavement toward the scene a female trooper scribbled my name and badge number onto a clipboard before letting me continue. The unmistakable smell of copper associated with death permeated the air. The weather did little to dampen the odor. I followed the source, which led me to a mangled sports car, presumably the Dodge Viper the lieutenant mentioned over the phone.

A tow truck pulled alongside the crumpled heap, and the driver of the truck stepped out—a heavyset guy wearing grease-stained jeans and a blue t-shirt with AC/DC emblazoned on the front. He stood picking his nose. Was he digging for gold?

The concrete barrier had destroyed the Viper, which now resembled battlefield shrapnel. The left headlight dangled, nearly touching the ground. Numerous cracks ran north to south along the windshield. I wondered how he’d get this heap back to the police garage so the forensics team could do their investigation.

Several crime scene techs dressed in blue Tyvek suits stood near the open side door of a white van, which didn’t have as much damage as the sports car. The techs were sealing fifty-five-gallon drums for transport back to their lab. No telling if they contained dead bodies or toxic liquids but opening them here might prove to be dangerous.

A black and white box truck with Crime Scene Investigation on the side pulled next to the van. The driver, wearing blue coveralls with CSI stenciled in white letters on the back pushed a button and the lift lowered to the ground. He pulled a dolly from the truck and used it to move one of the drums onto the lift. The action seemed hypnotic and surreal at the same time.

Traffic had been reduced from three lanes to one. Onlookers gawked at the crash site as the vehicles moved at a snail’s pace.

Two Florida state troopers hung out near the edge of the yellow perimeter tape. One stood over six feet, his muscular features evident under his uniform. The other was short and stocky. This was where my investigation would begin.

I’m detective Watson. Can one of you give me the rundown?

Stocky looked me up and down. Then he blew a soft whistle. Being in a male-dominated club could be intimidating if you let it. I'd found remaining silent messed with their ego. After a moment, he hooked a thumb at the big guy. Jim here is the one you want to talk to. He was first on scene.

I pulled my iPhone from the belt clip, opened a recording app and pressed record. I said my name, the time, place, and raised the cell toward him.

Jim cleared his throat and began. His statement took a little less than half an hour, beginning with the chase and ending with the crash.

Did you identify the driver of the Viper? I asked.

Gabe Gulbranson. Age thirty-one. Two stints in prison. One for armed robbery, the other for grand theft auto. This would be strike three, sending him to the big house for life. He raised his hat and ran a hand through a mane of black hair. Doesn’t much matter now, though.

Died?

You could say that. FDOT working the roadside said his body shot through the driver-side window like a missile and sailed across the median to the eastbound lane. If that didn’t kill him, they heard a devastating pop as the front tires of an F-150 shattered his skull. The rear tires of the pickup smashed what remained.

I didn’t need to know this but didn’t say so. He was probably just trying to gross me out, get some sort of reaction. Instead, I studied the distance between the car and I-10 East. Approximately fifty feet. That’s one hell of a leap.

They both shrugged.

Anyone else in the car?

Jim nodded. One passenger. Identified as Alan Yoder, a.k.a. Joker, age 23. Did a stint for possession of an illegal firearm.

Yoder gonna make it?

Seatbelt saved his life. Might have saved his partner if he’d been wearing one.

Where did they take Yoder?

Eugene Falls Medical.

I pointed to the van.

Jim shook his head. Doesn’t look good. One of the fifty-five-gallon drums crushed the driver. Life Flight airlifted him to Eugene Falls.

I recalled McVay saying they hadn’t identified the driver of the van. Any ID on him yet?

No. But the license plate came back to a Paul Kennedy.

Address?

Jim glanced at his partner, then back at me. Something didn’t feel right. What are you not telling me? I asked.

Mister Kennedy died two years ago.

How?

Deceased is all we know.

Jim didn’t appear to know much, so I decided to go in another direction. I was told the Viper caused the crash. That right?

Other way around. The van pulled into traffic from the shoulder. The Viper collided into the van’s rear end. Both vehicles lost control and slammed into the cement barriers.

Did you witness it?

Not me specifically if that’s what you’re asking. He pointed up. Our bird in the sky shot video footage of the chase.

Where were they taking the Viper?

Probably a chop shop, but we can’t confirm.

Stocky chimed in, Maybe you could get Yoder to confess.

Jim nodded.

I didn’t see how grand theft auto fit into my case. Sounded suspect to me. Probably trying to pass the buck. There didn’t seem to be any other questions, so I reached into a pocket and handed Jim a business card. Call if you remember anything else.

Stocky crossed his arms and rocked back and forth on the heels of his feet. Guess you got your work cut out for you, darling.

I ignored him and walked toward Maggie Dobson, one of the crime scene techs that worked out of the Scientific Investigations Division, or SID. We graduated the police academy together. But after three years as a patrolman, she went back to school and earned her degree in forensic science. She had ditched the protective suit and was closing the rear door to a Chevrolet four door truck.

Maggie.

She turned. Hey, Rebecca. I see they got you working traffic control.

I’m paying off a speeding ticket.

Maggie smiled. Good one. She moved toward the driver door and I followed. So how can I help you, Rebecca?

You lift any prints from the van and the barrels?

The van was a treasure trove. Both barrels in the van had some good prints. The one on the street, she shook her head. Rain destroyed the evidence.

What about the driver?

I rolled his prints myself. If he’s in the system, we’ll identify him. Maggie hopped in the front seat and started the engine. Come by the office later. May have an update by then.

As she drove off my heart ached for the unknown victim in the barrel. I had no doubt the other two barrels also contained bodies. How many more victims are out there?

This case deserved my full attention. I grabbed my cell and called the direct number for the Commanding Officer of the Reserve Center. This wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.

Chapter 3

You need to fulfill your obligation as a Sailor, Chief Watson, Commander Roberts said. It’s imperative that we defend our nation against terrorists.

I found his statement offensive. I’d served two tours in Iraq—both times interrogating combatant insurgents. Roberts had never served outside the United States. Instead of pointing this out, I said, I understand your concern, sir, but I also have an obligation as a homicide detective. All I’m asking is to reschedule my drill weekend.

You’re putting me in a bind. I’m inclined to deny your request. He sighed as if this decision weighed heavily on his mind. But I’m going to grant it. Just know that sometimes there are consequences to your actions.

What are you implying? Is that some sort of threat?

Not at all. Only an … observation.

I declined to dig further. After all he did grant the request. And if there were consequences to my so-called actions, I’d worry about them if they came up.

I cleared the scene and drove back to the station to update McVay on the status. The sun punched through the gray, cloudy sky and the rain stopped.

The homicide division was located on the second floor of the precinct, once the old courthouse. The dicks bullpen housed the workstations of ten detectives. The place bustled with activity as detectives spoke on the phone, typed reports on their computers, or took statements from witnesses. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air. I decided to forgo a cup and stop at Cops-n-Robbers later.

I made my way to my desk which overlooked the courtyard now turned into a flower garden. The courtyard used to be the hanging square until Old Sparky retired hangings in 1904. The desk facing mine had belonged to my former partner Tony Francisco. We’d been partners for three years. Six months ago, he transferred to Miami. My fault. The pain of his leaving still stung.

I pressed the space key, and my laptop came to life. Why was John Doe driving a dead man’s van? Did he buy it from him but never register the vehicle in his own name? Was he the old man’s son or distant nephew? I logged into the DMV database and searched for Paul Kennedy’s driver’s license. The last one on file expired three years before his death. The address on the license matched the one on the registration. His current wife, Irene, age seventy-eight, had an active license on file, but not much else. Satisfied I’d accomplished very little, I printed copies of my great investigative work and walked toward the back of the squad room.

Light spilled through the open door of Lieutenant McVay’s office. He sat behind a pine desk spooning down a yogurt. The tall and lanky man who ran Robbery/Homicide looked up.

Wife’s got me on a low-cal diet. Apparently being skinny doesn’t prevent you from getting high cholesterol. What I could really go for is a double cheeseburger.

I nodded and then pointed to my nose. He grabbed a tissue from the box on the edge of the desk and wiped away the smidgen of yogurt. Take a seat and bring me up to speed.

Not much, yet. CSI took the barrels back to the lab. Both vehicles are being towed to the garage. The passenger of the Viper suffered minor injuries and the driver is roadkill. Our suspect, ID still unknown was flown to Eugene Falls.

You going to the hospital to speak to the passenger? Check the status of our perp?

Soon. Just dropped by to see if you have an update on a new partner?

Budget is thin. Anorexic, in fact. I submitted a request, but the Chief hasn’t approved it.

Unless you have a magic wand, this case isn’t going to be solved by four. I declined to tell him I’d cancelled my drill weekend.

Have a little faith, will you?

El-tee, this John Doe had at least one dead body in a barrel. We need to figure out why, and for what purpose?

He pointed his spoon at me. Both excellent questions. I have no doubt you will find the answers.

We also need to know if he was driving somewhere to dispose of the bodies. And if so, where?

He tossed the empty yogurt container into a trash can on the side of the desk. It’s not a pretty one. That’s for sure.

Why give it to me?

You’re my best detective.

I ignored the remark. He probably said this to all his detectives. This investigation has crap stamped all over it. Otherwise, why not let FHP take the lead?

You bring up a valid question, but this changes nothing. Work the clues, close the case.

Then find me a partner.

He placed his elbows on the top of the desk and leaned forward. Not gonna happen, detective.

If I’m to work this case, I need assistance.

McVay stared at me for some time. Probably trying to get an angle on the statement. He knew he’d be my go-to guy since he didn’t have anyone to loan out. He spread his palms out to the side. What do you need?

There it was. Mine for the taking.

For starters, warrants drafted for Irene Kennedy’s home and any other properties in her name. I handed him the sheets of paper. He read over them.

Do you really think our killer resided there? He could’ve simply stolen the vehicle. Left his identification elsewhere as a precaution.

I’d thought about this after leaving the scene. The chances of our killer happening upon a van registered to a dead man didn’t seem feasible. Too easy. I didn't like coincidences.

I stood and started for the door.

Where are you headed?

I grinned. "To work the clues.

Chapter 4

When I got back in my Jeep, the sun was winning the battle of air superiority. Most of the gray clouds had retreated into the horizon, but several still hung around. I thought about dropping the top to the Jeep, but the possibility of rain changed my mind.

Traffic in the city moved at a crawl. At this pace I’d be lucky to get to the hospital in half an hour. A crimson sports car made an illegal U-turn, zipped ahead of me, then slammed on the brakes. I tried to stop, but my tires didn’t bite into the slippery pavement. The unmistakable screech of metal on metal pierced the air as my bumper hit his trunk.

A moment later, a tall, overweight gentleman of about fifty emerged from the car wagging a finger at me. Instead of getting confrontational, I flipped on my police lights. His eyes widened. The thought occurred to add the sirens, but the wail might be overkill.

His face turned the color of his car when he noticed the damage to his trunk. From my vantage point, mangled would be the right word to describe the aftermath of his reckless driving. I had a reinforced bumper, so I didn’t sustain any damage. His car was most likely made of plastic. Great for speed, but not protection.

He slammed a fist on the hood of my jeep.

Seriously?

I flipped a switch and the siren chirped twice. The noise startled him, and he stopped. Cooler heads might prevail. Instead he stomped his feet on the street, acting like a toddler. Maybe he needed a nap in lockup.

As I stepped out of the Jeep, he started toward me, his face painted in anger. I flashed my badge. Truth be told, I didn’t have any authority here, as cops can’t take control of a scene in which they’re involved, but he didn't need to know that.

He took another step and pointed at me. This is all your fault! Women shouldn’t be allowed to drive.

Let’s get something straight. You made an illegal U-turn, zipped in front of me without using your blinker, then slammed on your brakes. What did you think would happen?

His eyes widened. We’ll let a real cop be the judge of that. I used my turn signal. You had more than enough room to stop. Like most women you were probably on your phone.

I pulled out my cell.

Spittle flew from his mouth. See? You’re using it now. Calling your boyfriend?

With more force than usual, I punched the number into the phone, resisting the urge to glare at the misogynist. Three rings later, dispatch answered.

This is Detective Rebecca Watson, badge 1946. I’m involved in a two-vehicle accident on Highway 98 near the intersection on Jennifer Way. No injuries.

There was a short pause as the person on the other end typed on a keyboard.

A unit is dispatched your way, detective.

I thanked them and hung up.

As I started to turn and walk away, a sarcastic grin spread across the idiot's face. That’s the problem with women, they run from a fight.

I looked back and smiled into my dash cam. We were still live.

Two minutes later, a police cruiser pulled along the curb behind me.

My cell chirped. A text message from the lieutenant.

Warrant for Mrs. Kennedy’s home has been signed. She also has a storage locker at Master Storage off Langley Ave.

A jolt of energy coursed through me. The case had officially started. Now to keep the momentum going.

After dealing with this situation, I decided to check out the home first. The guy at the hospital would remain there until he was healthy enough to be booked downtown. Either way, I knew where to find him.

What do we have? the officer asked.

Lard Ass put a hand on his neck and moaned in pain. She hit me from behind. This is all her fault. He winced. My neck hurts really bad.

Is this true? the officer asked.

I smiled. Let's take a look at my dash cam footage.

Lard Ass’s face turned ashen.

Chapter 5

Thirty-five minutes later, I parked on the curb to 1992 Comstock Avenue. The house, approximately eight hundred square feet, was in dire need of a good scrubbing. The homes on this street, which all resembled each other, had popped up after the Second World War. Most still resembled the original design, but several had a garage installed or a room or two added.

The bushes outside the windows needed to be trimmed, unless it was the resident’s intention to use this as some sort of criminal deterrent, although I didn’t think so. The barred windows should have been enough to keep out the riffraff.

This area of Eugene Falls somehow escaped the rain from earlier. I cut the engine and made my way across the dirt lawn. Miniature dust bombs floating into the air with each step. Sweat dripped from my brow by the time I reached the front door of the tiny dwelling.

I knocked on the door and announced myself. There wasn’t a vehicle parked in the yard. Maybe Irene Kennedy wasn’t home. Instead of knocking again, I peeked through the only clean spot, on a large window that fronted the house. A female body, naked, with a slim figure lay sprawled on the living room floor. Several clues screamed at me. I knew from her ashen skin she no longer warranted medical attention. That and a cord wrapped around her neck. And secondly, she was way too young to be a grandmother.

I grabbed my phone and called the lieutenant.

That was quick. McVay, said. Mrs. Kennedy provide any help?

We have a dead body inside.

She’s dead?

No. Somebody else.

A dense silence, then he asked. You think this is linked to our John Doe, don’t you?

Not sure. But it would be one heck of a coincidence if it’s not.

Okay. Stay put. I don’t want you entering the house. I’ll dispatch the crime scene techs, several patrol units, and the medical examiner.

I hated the idea of remaining idle in case Mrs. Kennedy lay inside in need of medical assistance. But he was right. Going in without backup could be dangerous.

Something slithered between my calves, startling me.

Shit!

Turned out to be a cat. A mangy looking thing with tufts of black and white fur. The face looked scrunched in. I didn’t know if the feline had been born with that face or was trying to give me attitude.

This your house?

The cat tilted its head as if that were the dumbest question ever asked.

Chapter 6

By twelve-forty, police cruisers, a crime scene van, and the medical examiner surrounded the place. The disintegrating cement path and yard were cordoned off, forcing the ever-growing crowd of onlookers to congregate into the street. This kept most of the riffraff out. Several times someone tried to break through the barrier but one of the patrol officers pushed them back. A second strand of yellow tape had been strung just outside the house, the inner perimeter.

Sergeant Al Hudson, a middle-aged, black man barked orders at several patrolman. Al was on as the watch commander. He’d been my training officer after I graduated the academy. The man was tough but fair.

He approached, lips in a tight line, his signature no-nonsense expression.

I handed him the warrant for the storage locker in Mrs. Kennedy’s name.

What you want me to do with this?

This is a warrant for the storage locker of the owner of the home. Can you send two officers to check it out?

He studied the warrant. Is Mrs. Kennedy going to cause a problem?

Not until we find her.

We watched as a vintage Nova with faded blue paint and patches of white Bondo turned onto Comstock. Black smoke billowed from the rear end as the car sputtered down the street. People slowly moved to allow the band-aid car to pass. The Nova pulled into a driveway across the way. When the owner cut the engine, the car backfired. Several officers flinched, as did I. But in this neighborhood, everyone who belonged