Branded for Murder (Scott Tucker Series)

  BRANDED FOR MURDER

  By: Dick C. Waters

  Copyright © 2012 All Rights Reserved

  Dick C. Waters

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, typing, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, from Dick C. Waters.

  This is strictly a work of fiction; names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or fictionalized.

  “If you play with fire, you will get burned.”

  In memory of Adelaide Ruth Waters

  You taught me to be positive, and to believe in myself

  Acknowledgments:

  My life is gifted by many people who were a positive influence. You know who you are, and I thank you.

  Life’s a journey, and you made it memorable.

  Foreword

  2012 was the 50th anniversary of the serial killer known as the Boston Strangler. Although Albert DeSalvo confessed to the murders, there has been much speculation as to whether he was the actual killer.

  This novel takes you back fifty years to 1962, and creates a fictitious serial killer named the

  ‘New England Strangler’

  “Scott Tucker Series” novels

  Listed in the recommended reading sequence:

  Branded for Murder

  Serial Separation

  Scent of Gardenia

  Fragrance of Revenge

  Foreplay for Murder*

  (*Adult version - Fragrance of Revenge)

  Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/DickCWaters

  Prologue – 1962

  Women in New England were panicking. A serial killer was targeting women of all ages. The media gave him the name “The New England Strangler.”

  Although not confirmed by authorities, many additional attacks were speculated. The fear was that women, who were attacked, but not killed, did not want the embarrassment and shame associated with reporting being molested and raped.

  *.*.*

  The fragrance of body lotion from her earlier bath lingered on his skin. He closed his eyes. His naked body reacted to the slow cascade of underwear collected from women he had assaulted in every New England state.

  He smiled, but no one could see him in his darkened bedroom, recalling the intimate details of a few hours ago when he had taken another life.

  She was intelligent. They were all more intelligent than he, but none smart enough to see through his guise. He marveled that his limited intelligence could outwit these women and gain him entry to their protected abodes.

  Grasping them by surprise from behind was always a challenge, but he was always successful. They were shocked speechless when they felt the cold knife blade against their throat. He immediately had their undivided attention.

  This last one was especially lovely, although younger than others. He remembered her body tensing, when he commanded her to remove her panties, then her hesitation when he told her to put them in her mouth. He recalled the warmth of the back of her body against his as he held her tightly while she did as he asked. He had been in no rush. Several minutes later they were in her bedroom, still locked together. He had instructed her to get nylons from her dresser drawer.

  He loved how degrading it was for them to help tie themselves to the corners of the bed. Most of them did it in shock, only a few required a small amount of blood to remind them how fragile they were. Some did it with tears flowing. When he had tied her ankles to each post, he followed it by licking the tears from her pretty face.

  He interrupted his thoughts, removing the nylon material which had covered his body, and resumed a new cascade from his extensive collection. He closed his eyes and remembered the sight when he undid her white bathrobe belt exposing her.

  Her chest was heaving trying to gasp for air. He wound the robe belt around her neck along with a couple of nylons. He remembered her taste. She had turned her head to the wall, and kept her eyes closed for the many minutes while he did what he always did. Sometimes he thought he detected enjoyment, they all nodded when asked, but he still thought some were not lying.

  Her warmth was almost unbearable and he recalled his muscles tensing as he pulled the robe belt and nylons tightly around her throat. Shortly, they both let go—her to someplace much better. Although he was satisfied again, he knew he had to have another young woman soon.

  Chapter 1

  November was not the best time of year in New England. The trees had all turned from their bright colors and had dropped most of their leaves. I was trying to get ready for the November break and had a few things to finish up this week. The past two and a half years have been a blur, but I have to admit I have finally managed to develop a routine.

  It has not been easy adjusting to Harvard. Teachers in high school knew each of their students and kept a watchful eye on whether they were keeping up with their studies. Some of my teachers were very friendly and caring, and I would say I will remember them fondly for years to come. They took it personally if they knew you were slacking off and capable of doing a much better job. I’m not sure many instructors here could place names with faces.

  I finished shaving. Still pondering that thought, I looked in the mirror and tried to see if my face was memorable. Years ago they might have remembered the pimples, but my face survived that period. I imagined girls pushing their fingers into my dimples. However, that hasn’t happened yet.

  I recalled one of my classes where we had to use a mirror to describe ourselves on a piece of paper. It had something to do with being a witness to a crime. I’m not sure my description at the time would have allowed anyone to recognize me. I remember the exercise was to associate each class member to our descriptions taped on the wall. The exercise did break some of the reserve we were experiencing, but not as much as I would have liked.

  I looked at my image now, recalling what I wrote at that time; long face with dimples, short-cropped-darkening blonde hair with mid-length side burns, blue eyes, full mouth and lips, nose in proportion, square chin, and thin-light eye brows just above the eyes. I didn’t feel comfortable writing handsome, but that might not have been fair to the exercise.

  There was one coed with red hair who was the only one to correctly associate all of us with the descriptions. She was obviously gifted, seeming to spend more time studying me. I still recall her smile. It was because my face got very red when she was nose to nose studying my face. She must have known I wouldn’t put that on my paper.

  I would have liked to use that exercise to break the ice between us, but was too shy to use it to my advantage. I know if I had spoken to the red head, she would have willingly carried on a conversation. I should have spent more time in high school with girls, but I was so focused on my studies, it just didn’t happen. I know I have to change. It is driving me crazy not to be with girls. I could count on one hand the number of girls I’ve kissed. I know who they were, where we were, and what we were doing at the time.

  I decided I’d spent enough time thinking about all of that and got dressed. Maybe if I had a sister I would be more comfortable with girls. I realized I was still thinking about girls. I took some art classes and one in particular involved nude models. I was very self-conscious knowing I turned red staring at parts I couldn’t recall from memory. It was hard to steady my hand capturing what I was looking at.

  I thought about the coed at the Chase School for Women library where I go when I need to study or do research. She
reminds me of that model. She is tall with long-blonde hair that she flips behind one ear with the longest fingers. She always seems to be smiling, whispering often with her friend, who is always with her. I think of her often. Sometimes her face is on the model’s body. She has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. I usually sit close enough to see the sparkle in her blue eyes.

  I decided to do school work all day, so getting dressed was not a priority. I put on my favorite Harvard gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, picking up where I left off last night. The kitchen table was covered with my study material. Today, I needed to focus on my school work, not follow my normal routine of scanning the newspapers.

  My landlady is really nice, leaving them on the stairs leading to my upstairs apartment. I often wonder how early she rises, as the papers are always on my bottom step outside her apartment door. The only sections missing are Dear Abby and the crossword puzzles.

  *.*.*

  After more than three hours I decided to take a break. I was satisfied with my study progress, and just had to review material for one of my finals. My stomach was now talking to me and I realized I had skipped breakfast. I quickly put English muffins in the toaster and headed for the newspapers.

  Mrs. Abbott, who has been my landlady for the last two years, gets the Globe and the Record American every day. I prefer the Globe, as I like how the stories are written, but I do look at the other paper, whose stories seem to titillate.

  I rushed quickly downstairs. Usually, I’m partially dressed but today I’m decent. I wondered if Mrs. Abbott ever observed me fetching the papers in my underwear, but I’m sure she would never comment.

  I had been following all the reports of the New England Strangler. The Back Bay area of Boston has recently become his primary target area, but many other cities and towns within the state, and all of New England for that matter, have led the media to name him the New England Strangler. Like many other people, I hope he is captured soon. My interest is also related to my studies in criminology. I’m especially interested in how authorities are progressing in the investigation. Recently, the press has been reporting the need to better organize the different public safety entities to eliminate delays and improve communication.

  I wasn’t at all surprised when I read the headlines – ‘New England Strangler Strikes Again!’

  *.*.*

  Reading the report,

  ‘Authorities have confirmed a thirty-one year old woman from Woburn was found slain in her apartment. Like other victims, she was strangled with items of her own clothing. She was discovered by a close friend after not reporting to work and not answering her phone. She was found like the other strangler victims; naked and tied to her bed. Her identity is being held pending contact with family members.’

  I lost count of the number of victims. The media seems to be holding back the disclosure of how many murder victims are believed to be tied to this particular strangler. Other related stories have discussed what people should do to secure their dwellings, using extra caution while in their residences. Most of the crime scenes have not shown any signs of forced entry, which baffles the authorities. There is some thinking he might be posing as someone connected with public service.

  The phone’s sharp ring made me jump. I quickly picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Scott, its Mom. Something terrible has happened.”

  Chapter 2

  She was crying. “What is it Mom?”

  “Scott, your cousin Jackie was found murdered in her apartment. Uncle Jack just called me to let us know. Aunt Frances collapsed when she heard the news. Scott, this is awful. They think she was a victim of the Strangler.”

  “Mom, I don’t know what to say. I was just reading about it in the papers. I’m sorry to hear this. I’ll head to the farm to be with you and dad.”

  “No Scott, listen. We’re okay and you have your school work to focus on. We’ll be fine. We’re going to go to my sister’s to see if we can help. Many arrangements are needed, and Frances is not going to be in any condition to deal with those details. Jack was pretty shaken when he called. You just don’t think these things will ever involve your own family. Please just say a prayer. I’ll call and let you know the arrangements when we know more.”

  “Thanks Mom. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m still shaking, and finding it hard to believe, but I’m okay. Please be careful…I don’t want anything like this to happen to you. You’re all we’ve got.” She started to sob again.

  “Scott, its Dad. We’re okay. But things will be very confusing for a few days. I’ll take care of Mom, and we’ll be in touch.”

  He didn’t wait for my response. The phone clicked. I could tell Dad was not his normal calm self. It took me a moment or two to realize I was still holding the phone, and staring at the headlines –

  ‘New England Strangler Strikes Again!’

  *.*.*

  I was having difficulty believing this had actually happened. You hear about people being killed, but not in your family. I tried to remember the last time I saw Jackie; it was a year ago last Christmas. She was so excited learning I was attending Harvard. I gave her a leather Harvard bookmark. It wasn’t much but she was thrilled.

  She always reminisced about baby sitting for me. Her parents lived on the farm next to ours in Maine. She loved to play games, and taught me how to play poker and some other card games. I wish now we had spent more time together.

  I can’t believe she’s dead. She was so beautiful. I often wondered why someone so beautiful never married. When we last saw each other, she tactfully avoided the question when I asked her. She asked me about my own love life, and I told her that I just didn’t have time. She had given me that smile of hers, saying the right person is going to change that.

  What did she do to make herself a target of the strangler? Maybe if she had married she wouldn’t have been killed. Why had someone so beautiful and nice not found someone to spend her life with? I read the article again and felt like punching something.

  Who knew he was going to strike twenty miles north of Boston, so much for the Back Bay area being his primary target area. Images of our fun times together were being superimposed by her last moments at the hands of this killer.

  *.*.*

  My fingers ran across the raised letters of my sweatshirt. A Harvard education opened doors, but with it came the responsibility of doing something special. I had promised my parents that they would never regret the sacrifices they made to save the money necessary to send me to Harvard.

  Maine farming was not a very lucrative way of life, but my dad had been smart. He had sold some of their land over the years and had invested the funds wisely. I remember the day he asked me what my dream college would be if I could go anywhere. I wanted to tell him “Harvard” so badly, but knew they couldn’t afford it, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I told him one of the local state universities would be great. Dad only smiled and reached down into a bag beside the milking machine. I would never forget what happened next.

  “Close your eyes Scott, and put your arms over your head.” Dad slipped the material over my head and pulled it down over my chest and smoothed it around my waist.

  “Okay, Scotty, open your eyes.”

  When I opened my eyes, Mom was standing behind Dad, her shaking hand hiding a smile. I looked down at the sweatshirt and read the maroon letters on the material, HARVARD. Somehow they learned I had been accepted at Harvard.

  I looked down at that same sweatshirt and my eyes began to water just like they had years ago. I owe my parents to make something good out of this education. I promised my mom and dad I would, but now I needed to make a promise to Jackie—I will help find your killer.

  Chapter 3

  My skin felt like it was crawling. After a long shower, I put on sweats and came back to the newspapers. I read the article several times. I caught myself pounding on the table, the newspaper in shreds on the floor.

  I stared for a long
time at the scraps of newspaper. No matter how I tried to deny the news, the result was the same—this really happened.

  I picked up the Globe and avoided the article about the recent strangling. Their headline read - ‘Mass AG Establishes Strangler Task Force!’ Patrick O’Brien was mentioned in the article to head the task force. He is also a popular guest speaker at Harvard, scheduled to speak first thing tomorrow morning. I was already planning to attend the lecture.

  After reading the article I realized what I needed to do - I have to get on that task force…but how?

  *.*.*

  I arrived an hour early so I could be seated front and center in the lecture hall. I was trying to focus on how to best engage him. However, my mind was playing tricks on me. I kept thinking about Jackie’s senseless murder. Although I kept trying to deny it, it really happened.

  The newspaper article talked about Mr. O’Brien. He had been a long-time decorated detective with the Boston Police Department, now heading up his own private investigation firm. The Massachusetts Attorney General, Victor Young, wanted someone outside the widely dispersed public safety organizations to coordinate the activities of the task force.

  My mouth was extremely dry thinking about engaging him. I can’t fail, I must get on that task force, and help find Jackie’s killer.

  I heard the shuffle of shoes on the old wooden floor as students filed into the lecture hall behind me.

  I turned, after I was bumped, to see a redhead selecting a seat in the row behind me. “Sorry.” However, her smile and stare told me she wasn’t guilty at all. I recognized her from that earlier facial recognition exercise, but I couldn’t put a name with her face.