Home… to pick a fight… with a Killer

By

Granville Johnson

Part One

Even in death, he was exquisite.

Dr. Marla Staples shivered as the cold heavy mist slid off and through the wide brim of her saturated sun hat; joining the rivulets of colder sweat meandering down from an overflowing trough in the slim nape of her exposed neck to become a white-water torrent down both sides of her hunched shoulders. Meeting once again between her ample breasts stretching the already overburdened material to soggy shapelessness beneath the ineffectual protection her rain-slicker provided. Thoughtlessly she pressed the ‘frog’ clasp binding her bra cups together until it was out of alignment and released, freeing its contents, under her shirt to follow gravities design. She made a mental note to remove her bra at the first opportunity. Her saturated uniform shirt molded itself to her newfound freedom and felt some how comforting. She was grateful for the privacy of the rain-slick allowing her to be braless when professional propriety posed serious demands upon her attention.

The fine mist hid her tears. They too were comforting.

The river gurgled near her left knee as the odd wave found its way up her pants leg sinking slowly into the muck that reeked of blood urine and feces. “His all his...last gift, final letting go, release,” she thought. Letting go, he had often chided her on her need to hoard her feelings, keeping them hidden well within her catch all cloak of professionalism. She dealt with death as a profession. To breathe among those who never would again was obscene, to feel among the unfeeling was sacrilegious. Living was a gift often squandered by the ignorant; life, itself, a secret held close.

Her chest was tight, aching. The spasmodic pain tingled her numbing fingertips holding the light. It’s quivering halogen beam piercing the gloom to etch his Greek god-like features forever in the fist-tight drumbeat of her heart. Breathe…her deep sigh ached as her breath rose, arched in the moisture laden air, caressed the fine mist-like droplets, then was dragged down to be drowned in the black rush of the river.

“Hey, how’re you doing down there? The body bag is here whenever you’re ready Mar…”

“I’m okay…could use more light though…”

“Sure thing, be down in a minute with the lamps. Coffee’s hot and doughnuts; want some?”

“No thanks.”

The red and blue flash of the police car-top strobe was swallowed by the hungry blackness, drowned in the same pool that had crowded the life from his lungs.

He hadn’t died in the fall from the bridge. The tire tracks on the bridge railing were ten, maybe fifteen feet of wild riding, on top of the world. The ride then dived into the void. The Harley was to be swallowed by the water. As he left the bridge, trusting in his momentum, Rush had grabbed air and almost made it, but had landed among the boulders in the shallows. Broken, he had crawled along the bank to die in this pool when blood loss and shock claimed him. All this she could see in her mind’s eye as her gaze traced his trail back through the slippery mud and stone to the dark stained rocks above the cascading water line at the base of the bridge support, then across the roiling blackness where the flashing glint of metal or perhaps a mirror faintly blinked red and blue, the Harley. He was never far from his beloved hog, even in death, it was close by, waiting as always ready to chase the dawn. Noting its location carefully, automatically her attention returned to the bridge.

Marla’s instincts screamed softly in her gut, she listened; suspicion blossomed.

“Deputy!”

“We’ll be right down…”

“Send someone to the other side of the bridge, north east river bank. Secure his bike before the current washes it away. Also make sure that you cordon off the bridge approach where the motorcycle left the road and jumped the railing. Have someone check for tracks, make a mould and take pictures of the railing. Set a detour up at the bypass to the old bridge on both ends. I want no tourist driving through my crime scene.”

“Crime scene?’

“You heard me correctly deputy.”

“We’re on it.”

“How about that light?’

“Right, Doc…”

She stared through the thick mist at the looming shadow above her, seeing his death unfold.

“AAAAH…Ugh!” Blackness, his grip slipped further as the water tore at his clothes. Surprised that he still breathed, Rush tried to pull himself out of the torrent, only to feel the scream once more torn from his chest. Yet the sound was more a mournful gurgle.

“Nope that was not a good idea,” thought, Rush. “Can’t feel my left side; must try another way.” Rush was 6’ tall, lithe, long, and deceptively strong with lightning-quick reflexes. In the gym, he could press 140 lbs. of dead weight in each dumbbell. Today he was grateful for every bit of that hard-earned power. Rush pulled hard with his right arm while feebly kicking with his leg on that side. Screaming through his limp lower lip to stem the searing pain, he refused to accept the watery grave calling his name. Grinding his face, knee, toe and elbow repeatedly into the craggy-smooth crevices of the rock face while changing his weakening grip; he managed to inch along the rock face against the current. It was somewhat helping as it pushed its way south pressing against the rocks while ever threatening to sweep him away.

As he reached the sandy clay surface of the riverbank he paused to rest and breathe which involved an escalating pain wracked effort. His left side was utterly useless; an elephant was tromping on his chest, each breath was more shallow and prompted greater pain. His right eye was swollen closed and what vision remained in his left eye was fading fast. The acrid metallic taste of adrenaline, blood and stomach bile filled his senses. He felt the soothing warmth fill his jeans beneath his chaps as his bowels let go and did not care. It felt alive amidst the clawing death.

The butt landed, lit-end-up just in front of his nose and stuck there. Now blind to it, the pungent sickly sweet reek awakened his life long aversion with the habit and all who were addicted. His hate drug him out of his shock-induced stupor, he had to remove that stench from his precious breath. Instinctively he reached to push it away, suddenly realizing that it may mean another chance at life. Someone was close by, “…el…!” He gurgled.

“Help you? Is that what you’re saying? Speak up! I can’t hear you.”

“…ease, …ease …el… …eee.”

“Help you. Sure…be happy to…”

“Doc…here are the lamps. I got a couple of men securing the Harley and roping off the area. Shit! He’s broken up pretty bad; must have been a vicious landing. Bikes, speed and bad roads are a lethal mix. My ol’ lady let me buy my bike and now won’t let me ride…”

“Deputy!”

“Yeah Doc?”

“Thanks for the light. Could you place them on both sides of the body just above the water line? And I need one down there by the rocks at the base of the bridge. Be very careful where you walk.”

“Sure thing Doc. Shit, what a mess…”

“Deputy!”

“Sorry Doc…get right on it.”

Marla Staples, otherwise known simply as Doc, was the only doctor in the area. It seemed that her patients, the community at large, thought it redundant to give her a name. Doc would do, easy on the tongue and every person in a fifty-mile radius knew whom it referred to. Marla was just ‘Doc’, except to him and he lay dead and broken at her feet. Suddenly, her name mattered not. Marla had a very athletic build though she was a small woman, 5’ 4” and 110 lbs. on a rainy day. Olive-skinned, she had elf-like features that belied her African American heritage. Most people, including her husband, mistook her to be Philippine. Only her thick head of tight nappy curls (kept very short to accent her facial features), an impressive 34D cup chest and a high-toned derriere, seemed to speak otherwise.

Doc’s presence petrified the deputy: tall, 6’ 3” handsome square jawed hunk, considered to be a real chick-magnet in his day. High school prom king and jock-of-choice by most of the female population, he had married his queen when it became clear they had sired an unexpected heir. He was comfortable with the ever-present flow of adulation succumbing to his boyish charm and good looks in the small town. Upon occasion he had capitalized upon his power, his badge and the bulge in his pants to feed his libido.

This fine little piece of professional female Blackness was another matter altogether. She distracted him all to hell. Soaked from head to toe and mired in mud and filth, she was still drop dead gorgeous and deadly serious. Doc brooked no foolishness.

Besides her husband, the sheriff was insanely jealous. Mostly because of what he was rumored to do with whom, when and wherever possible. Boss Hog: the sheriff was terrified that someone would collect his trophy while he was busy elsewhere, paying, raping or blackmailing for his. Boss Hog seemed to have a real closet-hunger for the illicit and the illegal, thus he was a perfect mentor for the deputy, so to speak. The deputy and the sheriff were “twin, before and after” images of the same ‘young-too-soon-to-be-so-old’ man with too many years of monotonous road wear, hard living sloth and spirit killing power lust, in between: one becoming the other. The sheriff, unlike the deputy, no longer thought of himself as a champion of justice, a servant of the community or enforcer of the law. He was the law: judge, jury and enforcer; above and beyond the law, he ran his town his way…period. Rumor was that somebody was doing her and the mighty sheriff cock-of-the-walk was furiously beating the bush to find out who was in hers.

For his part, the deputy would damn sure risk his job, his marriage perhaps even his life for some hot quality time with her.

“Point the light over here and glove up.”

“Uhh…don’t have any with me.”

“That’s okay. There’s a box of size large in my bag.”

“Okay…”

“Stand behind him on his right side and grab his head by his forehead, be mindful of that gash and at the nape of his neck. I want you to lift his head out of the puddle, without turning it, just high enough for me to slide his right arm out.”

“How high?”

“I’ll say when to stop and when to set him back. Get a comfortable stance because it may be a while. I also want to examine his other cheek.”

“Don’t you want to drop his pants before you turn the other cheek?’

“Very funny, deputy.”

“I do have a name, you know.”

“So do I. It’s Dr. Staples, Head Coroner. Now lift his head gently. Good, hold it right there. Don’t move.”

Marla was on both knees and one elbow with flashlight peering into the torn and battered right side of Rush’s face besides being badly lacerated, his mandible appeared to be fractured with maybe four or more teeth broken off at the gum line. His tongue was split down its entire length; the lower lip had been punctured along its axis. Speech, in this condition, would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible. The skin at his temple had been peeled away to expose sinew over bone above the apex of his jaw line. There were rock fragments ground into this tissue and above the eye socket from which the eyeball extruded seemingly held by its ganglion nerve. It appeared that he had used this side of his face to scale the rocks after impact. She suspected that was the case exactly.

Marla examined his arm, mostly protected by his leathers except at the elbow and wrist that were torn badly, probably by the same effort for the same reason. “Hard fight, hard death for the fleeting thrill of speed. Stupid, stupid, stupid waste of your life and mine,” thought, Marla.

“Are you finished yet, Doc?”

“Not yet. We’re not there yet, so be quiet and enjoy the ride.”

The reference to the childish whine in his tone stung his pride, “Boss bitch.” Her new name bounced across his mind, to the rhythm of his climbing pulse.

Shifting her attention to Rush’s hand, she noticed that within the death grip of his massive fist, he was grasping something caught within the oozing mud. She couldn’t quite see it well enough. She pushed her face virtually into the filthy palm of his fist breathing deep “the gathering gloom” and caught the faint whiff of a familiar stench beneath the river rot: a hateful odor; one that had signaled the loss of all the joy in her life. Instinctively she recoiled, its mystery made her intuition scream from deep within her gut. Cold fear prickled her skin. She shivered anew. “Patience Marla, there is much to discover here. Whatever it is, it’s not going anywhere without him. You owe it to him to do your job. Something is wrong here, very wrong.”

Still it would have to wait until she was in the lab where, post rigormortis, she could discover its secret, held close in the grinning reaper’s cloak.

“Okay you can put his head down now.”

“Turn him over?”

“No…not yet.”

In unison they lowered Rush’s upper body back into the muck with his right arm straightened palm up protecting his prize.

“I…well, well, what do we have here?”

The cigarette butt was sticking partially out of a size twelve-boot print where someone had pressed it into the mud. The cigarette had been approximately three quarter smoked, and discarded. Taking tweezers from her bag that lay just in reach outside the grid, she picked up the butt and placed carefully in a zip-lock evidence bag.

Shifting the body slightly had revealed the boot print, partially covered by Rush’s body. The position of the print placed its owner standing virtually on top of Rush. There were two prints of the right foot, more or less in a line, with less than a stride in between; its matching partner was missing.

Marla looked carefully within a reasonable radius of about a metre to find where the other boot had landed, no print. Kneeling once more over Rush’s body she examined his jacket closely with the aid of the bright light. “Shine the lamp here, so I can see his back and shoulder. That’s it.”

The light only revealed a seemingly haphazard pattern of splotches and creases in the aged worn leather that had lost much of its ability to shed moisture. Marla readied her digital camera to capture an image that she knew would soon fade. She then sprinkled talcum powder on the jacket, covering his back with an even white coat. Taking a rapid series of timed exposures, she recorded the change in the surface pattern of the jacket as the powder absorbed moisture from the jacket. Checking the camera’s photo index, she was pleased to see the imprint of a muddied, slightly smudged left boot sole appear in the powder.

After covering the imprint with a large single sheet of fine gauze, she then meticulously cut the large gauze covered rectangle from the back of Rush’s jacket with bandage shears and sprayed it evenly with a fixer to capture the imprint. Marla slid the cloth sandwich into a large zip-lock evidence bag that was being held by the deputy and placed the package in her bag.

“Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

“Time to roll him over. Take his shoulder and hip and pull gently, don’t want to change his overall position. I’ll cradle his head and keep it in alignment with his relative position. That’s it, lower him down real easy…excellent.”

“Good enough?”

“Yes, thanks again.”

The left side of Rush’s chest formed a cavity; the sternum was cracked down the middle. His leather jacket had settled in the depression to create a bowl with both a deep and shallow end. One or both of his lungs had clearly been punctured. He would not have been able to call for help if his life depended on it and it had. The left femur was fractured just below the hip socket and protruded through his chaps, an excruciating immobilizing injury, yet he had indeed moved. The head of the jagged bone fragment and wound was imbedded with sand. The leg and boot hung without direction or dominant position. The right leg was torn badly at the knee; the leathers ripped and the lacerated flesh peering through, encrusted with sand and rock fragments.

Marla’s heart cracked to see what her experience had warned her of; these types of injuries were consistent with such an impact. The silent scream reverberated through her entire being. She closed her eyes for long minute then glanced at the deputy who was staring transfixed as his face repeatedly lost and gained colour.

“Breathe deputy.”

“Right…Thanks”

She took samples of everything, including blood and tissue from the various wounds.

Marla continued to photograph the boot prints leading up to Rush’s body. She retrieved another similar cigarette butt that had been cast just off of the trail toward the river. The tracks led off in direction of the motorcycle before U-turning under the bridge to climb back up the hill toward the road. There was only one set of tracks other than hers and those belonging to the deputy. She examined several of what appeared to be the deputies boot prints. They seemed the approximate size of the boot track near Rush’s body, which was a size twelve. She measured to be certain. There had been no effort to hide or conceal; as if whom-ever had made them was absolutely confident of his right to be here. Perhaps even arrogant, so arrogant, she hoped, as to appear careless.

The boulders supported the path under the bridge, as well as provided esthetic touches around the base of the concrete abutment that supported the bridge. These things they did very well. The sedan-sized stones were not there to catch flying bodies. Unfortunately, this service was also done with aplomb by the silent sentinels. Several bodies had bounced or been pealed off them in recent years.

He so detested his full name, Rushamon, “It’s like being the man named Sue. Now Rush, I can live with that. Shows how laid back I really am on my sweet Harley, my Death Angle cruisin’ at 120 mph. Life’s a Rush.”

Fortunately her Rushamon had lived at least a little while. Though in the end she wasn’t sure which death would have been worse. The rocks kept no secrets. Rush’s tortuous path, in blood and bits of flesh, along the rough facade was clearly evident under the bright lights and Marla’s meticulous inspection. Crawling along the tops of the rocks, with tweezers, Petri dish, plastic vial, and magnifying glass, she picked as much evidence of her lover’s final torment as she could salvage.

Marla was careful not to cry. She had to remain detached. There was a crime here, a terrible crime that had violated her soul and taken his life. Yet it would do him a greater injustice to contaminate the evidence by mixing her DNA with his. Rush could no longer speak for himself. It was up to her to nail the bastard that was somehow responsible for her being here now doing this for what was left of the man she still loved.

All evidence was carefully and meticulously documented.

“Deputy?” Marla inquired quietly, watching him pour the ready-mix quick-dry Plaster of Paris into a pair of clear boot prints, under her direction. She wanted his candour without raising any suspicion as to the rationale behind her questions.

“Yeah Doc?”

“Were you the first responder?”

“No Doc.”

“Then who was? Who called you?’

“The Sheriff called. He was first on the scene. Said he noticed it on his way home.”

“And he reported the death?’

“Yep…said, be sure to bring a body bag and to call you. From there, it’d be your call.”

“Any particulars about the accident?”

“Said that the kid must have been moving at a pretty good clip to have jumped the railing before hitting the drink.”

“Was he here when you arrived?”

“Waiting in his Jeep. Left as soon as I pulled up; said he had business…more pressing matters and would be off channel for a while.”

“Is there any way of reaching him when he is off channel?”

“None that I know of. Off channel means time out, do not disturb…period.”

“Do you sometimes go off channel while on duty?’

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“I’m not the Sheriff…yet.”

“Do you smoke?”

“Nah, had to quit two years ago. Wife can’t stand the smell and was afraid that it would harm our kid. You know, second hand smoke and all…”

“Smart lady.”

“ I guess so. Then maybe not.”

“Why?”

“She married me.”

“She could have done better with someone else?”

“Probably, she is a real knockout, smart, gorgeous, great cook and mother to our kid, everything any man could desire. I’m just not the marrying kind…too restless and easily distracted.”

“ You are certainly honest.”

“Yeah, like the rest, its in my jeans. The problem is keeping it there.”

Marla listened carefully while continuing to examine Rush’s body and the immediate area. She had noticed that after crawling and clawing his way three metres along the shore and free of the current, he had come to rest in a shallow trough of porous sand. Rush could and should have died of his injuries right there if he had not been discovered.

Yet somehow he had slid up over the riverside low berm out of the trough and less than a half-metre down the bank and into the eddy. Where he probably drowned, face down. There weren’t any signs of struggle or self-propulsion. It would seem that Rush was helped by someone who wanted him dead and was too impatient or desirous of that certain outcome to leave it to chance.

“I’m going to get the stretcher and the bag. I want to secure him before we carry him out.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Marla picked up her bag, intent upon examining the tracks made by the bike upon Rush’s approach on the road and the bridge railing along with the bike itself.

They climbed toward the shimmering emergency vehicle lights in silence.

The deputy walked to the left of Doc, the bridge was to her right; she climbed the thirty percent grade with an easy up-right stride. The sandy clay was rain-slick in places, still her steps never faltered. He noticed that her rain-slicker, nearly saturated, had succumbed to the moisture and the mud. That, combined with the sharp angle of the incline, caused the coat to meld itself to her every curve. He was enthralled by the gentle sway of her uplifted yet pendulous breasts beneath her coat. They jiggled a little with every step toward the kaleidoscopic array of emergency vehicle light parked on the bridge.

Probably preoccupied with the case at hand, she seemed not to notice. He was fully erect and throbbing and his mouth was salivating though his throat was desert-dry before they reached the bridge guardrail at street level.

“I’ll check on those tire track moulds.” He was careful to keep his back to her as he hurried to the trunk of his cruiser.

“I’m going to measure and photograph the railing then examine the motorcycle before we go back down.”

Marla opened the overnight case that she always carried in the back of her blood red PT Cruiser Turbo and put on a loose white t-shirt and a big bulky wool sweater over her soaked blouse and discarded bra. Working underneath both dry garments, she quickly removed the wet clothing, slipped her arms into the dry then put on a fresh jacket and a rain hat. “That feels better. Now maybe he’ll stop drooling quite so much.”

The deputy met her at apex of the motorcycle track on the foot-wide railing of the bridge. He seemed relieved to see her change of clothing, even with the loss of his ‘view’. She decided that he might just have some redeeming qualities after all, though definitely NOT her type. She had recognized the similarities between the deputy and her husband quite some time ago. One married womanizer living under her roof was more than enough for this time in her life. Soon even he would be history.

The deputy measured the tracks while Marla photographed them from four angles of approach: front, back, side and directly overhead.

They repeated the process with the tracks at the bridge approach. It was a sharp 90-degree turn at the base of a 1/2-mile long 12-degree incline. There was a pullout in the turn just before the bridge anchor cables and railing rose up out of ground like the backs of “Dune Worms”. The pullout was bordered by a low berm on the riverside that formed a narrow plateau above the river; beyond that berm that served equally well as a launch pad there was nothing but air for a thirty metres down to the fast moving river.

Due to the long list of accidents created by all manner of vehicle drivers and riders from: skateboarders to snow-boarders, down hill skiers, soap-box racers, inline- skaters, bicyclist, motorcyclist, light planes, cars and trucks even a hang glider. Thus creating an infamous reputation summed up by its local name. They called it…”Dead Man’s Curve.”

Marla knew this place all too well; it brought her a continual supply of patients with concerned grieving families.

Now it was her turn.

Life was a Rush, a secret held close.

Death-Angel was in surprisingly good shape despite having fallen in the river’s narrow deep channel, it had been carried downstream to collide with slick, long dead, wind-fall log that traversed the river; uprooted burl on one side, branches on the other. The kids played “Robin Hood vs. Little John” on it. The loser would sometimes become more work for Doc Staples.

She was surprised to discover that the front tire was blown.

“ Deputy hold your light over here closer to this blowout; need to get a better look. Hmm, see this area along the rim? The surface of the sidewall is very evenly broken at the edge as if it had been partially cut through. The area around it on both ends is very jagged and you can see where the threads are blown out. Tell the wrecker to move this bike to the crime lab at the station. I want to take a much closer look at that front tire.” She marked the area very carefully with waterproof chalk.

The tire was a high performance all weather radial made for the changing weather pattern and subsequent road conditions that heralded spring in New Hampshire. She could absolutely vouch for its condition because she had been with him when she bought and he mounted them at the dealership where he worked.

Rush, a motorcycle mechanic, was a true master craftsman and in high demand. The shop paid him top dollar just to keep him from becoming their competition. Even with that incentive, she knew that he was slowly building a loyal clientele with the shop that he would soon take with him to his own.

Rush only outfitted Death Angle with the best parts of the best brands. He could afford it and nothing was too good for his baby.

She had been hoping, in her heart of hearts that some day he would feel the same about her. She had told him as much, just hours ago, the very last time he held close..to say goodbye…forever.

In the beginning as fall colours painted the sky, they were seldom in public together. That had all changed with the spring dawn, the Harley and her need for speed.

Marla had commissioned Rush through the shop to build a custom model for her, something small, light, strong and of course, fast, very fast. There was no rush and money was not an issue. He was building a dream bike fit only for, she hoped, his queen.

It was all true and a wonderful ruse that allowed her once a week to be with him in public checking the progress of her “hog”. She would appear on her lunch hour to talk in the shop, he would tutor her on the fine points of ownership and maintenance of a high performance machine. She would take a display bike out on a test drive, trying out a new feature before perhaps adding it to the growing list of innovations for her bike, her “Rushmore” named after a mountain of a man. Now and then they would have lunch out or even a “picnic”, they would both eat their fill of carnal delicacies and never gain a pound.

Last week he had finished her Rushmore and she had purchased his tires for Death Angel as a tip. He had mounted them and then her during their celebration picnic in a lovely sunny meadow deep in the woods outside of town. It was indeed a wonderful spring day. It was also the last day they were to be intimate together.

Marla and the deputy followed the two stretcher-bearers down toward Rush’s waiting secret. All four of them lifted him into the body bag after Marla tagged his right wrist, noting that the fist was still clenched, ever holding its silent ‘witness’. She zipped the bag closed and sent the men back up the hill with the rest of her night’s work. Satisfied that her crime scene examination was complete, for the moment, and eager to process the evidence that had been discovered; she packed the remainder of her bag and followed the men.

At the morgue, Marla cleaned Rush’s body and prepared it for autopsy, standard procedure in violent deaths, where cause or death is uncertain. This one was indeed uncertain.

The first item at hand was in hand and would have to be removed. It was probably just some beach trash that was caught in his hand at a critical time of death spasm. Her curiosity was chewing at her stomach lining. Did she really want to know? Professionally she did not have a choice. There were questions that needed to be answered.

Though she had thoroughly scoured the scene of Rush’s death, she had only come away with what could have been attributed to the evidence of a fatal single vehicle accident.

“Now let’s add up what I do have here, at least on the surface” She thought, “At best it was all circumstantial and nothing actually pointed with any certainty to murder.

Rush had jumped the railing at Dead Man’s Curve going faster than any sane man would. Perhaps he was racing or being chased? He landed very badly and crawled along the riverbank when a lesser man would have rolled over and allowed himself to die. Someone with big feet, perhaps a smoker, at some point had walked down the embankment and along the riverbank, perhaps to do what men do at night along a country road in a clench when other options for bladder relief are not readily available. Rush’s body possibly moved in death spasm or was moved by person unknown, before or after death. Death-Angel had a blowout in a new front tire that could be explained as a factory defect that gave under extreme stress. My husband, the Sheriff and first responder is lazy and let’s his randy deputy and his hyper suspicious wife do all his dirty work while he goes about his negligent probably lecherous business. I believe that about sums it up except for…”

Marla, slicing deftly with practiced eye cut the tendons and ligaments at the base of his palm. She eased his fist open. There, encapsulated in molded clay was a cigarette butt, identical to the other butts found at the scene, same brand and burn pattern. The butt was as fresh as the others and showed no signs of being crushed or decay from exposure. Much of the ash was still embedded in the surrounding dry clay where it had cooled.

“Hmm…thanks, Rush. Even in the midst of a hellish death you were still the smartest, bravest most generous man I’ve ever known.”

Quickly she set to work lifting the fingerprints off the cigarettes.

She whispered a sincere prayer of gratitude ending with a butterfly kiss on Rush’s left temple when she found the prints to be identical. Deciding to delay remainder of the procedure, Marla covered Rush and moved his body to a refrigerated locker.

She knew it would take weeks to develop the results of the DNA test and perhaps days to get a positive fingerprint identification through the data bank. She had another idea. If it was to be successful; she had to act now.

“Smoking can be hazardous to your freedom…” she chuckled to herself. “Maybe I will stencil that slogan across the back of his cell or maybe some bad ass con will brand it across his fat cheeks using his own particular form of inmate relations.”