The Footloose Killer

$14.95

 

When another dismembered foot washes up along the Virginia Beach oceanfront, the VBPD is stumped. It’s the eighth year in a row, always just as the frenzied tourist season starts. And for the eighth year in a row, there is no body, and there are no suspects.

Detectives Lexi Sawyer and Morgan Pryce have never felt more pressure to solve the case, just as their personal lives face a crucial test. The media is relentless in its coverage. The new Mayor demands an arrest. The police chief is hiding something. And their only lead points straight to the famous talk show host, Dr. Hill, who has a few secrets – not to mention millions of dollars – of his own to protect.

Join Sawyer and Pryce as they comb the boardwalk, searching for the elusive “Footloose Killer.”

The Footloose Killer is part of the Beach Murder Mysteries collection of books.

 

Excerpt

Chapter One

“Car two eighty-eight, we have a possible 10-54 at the Rudee Inlet, I repeat, a possible 10-54 at the Rudee Inlet, end of the boardwalk. Please respond.”

Sawyer shot her partner a smug look. “Possible dead body. You know what that means…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pryce said, pulling a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and stuffing it into the ashtray. “But that bill isn’t yours until we confirm.”

Sawyer smiled. A sign, Pryce knew, that she thought she was right. It had been the same thing for the previous seven years, all within the same week, right at the beginning of the tourist season. She picked up the radio, pressing the talk button flat with her thumb. “This is two eighty-eight, we copy that. We’re en route.”

“The code was possible dead body,” Pryce said, trying not to sound defensive. “Not ‘floating, severed foot.’ It could be anything. Hell, it could be another jumper for all we know.”

“Right.”

Pryce sat back and watched her drive, smiling to himself. She always bit her lip when she knew she was right, and her jaw shifted to the right, making her look like she had a half smile on her face. The sparkle in her eye gave away her confidence. One thing he had learned in seven years as her partner was to stay out of her way when she wore that look.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask them to confirm it,” he said, only half joking.

“Not on the radio,” she said. “Anyway, we’re a block away. I can wait.”

Now she was outright grinning. He should have known last week when she was willing to place the bet. She never bet anything unless she thought it was a sure thing.

She pulled into the parking lot off 2nd Street, braking hard and jamming the car into park. “We’re here. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

The bet had been to determine when Virginia Beach’s most infamous serial killer would strike again. Both detectives reluctantly agreed that another severed foot washing ashore was imminent, but they argued about the timing.

“So? Double or nothing?” Sawyer seemed so sure of her victory she could barely contain herself.

“No way.”

* * *

They walked along the sidewalk between the hotels on 2nd, dodging in and out of the crowd. The scent of coconut drifted past them on the sea breeze. It was a warm day, not yet in the full heat of the summer, and the tourists were already out in droves. Sunscreen, sweat, and saltwater air. That was what they expected when they got called to the boardwalk. They passed Grommet Island Park and made their way to the stone embankment, then peered over the edge to the scene below.

Only a few yards from where Sawyer and Pryce stood were two patrolmen – one skinny with blond hair, the other fit and dark-haired – and an irate old man, waving his arms in the air and wielding a fishing rod. He came dangerously close to the officers’ heads with the fishing hook swinging at the end of the pole. The old man and the officers bickered over the foot, which was ensnared within the old man’s net and on the ground in between the man and the officers. The foot was still in its shoe. The area was marked off with crime scene tape.

“Another foot,” Sawyer said, gloating as she scanned the length of the shoreline. “And no body to go with it again. Hey, Pryce, maybe we need a new code for a floating foot. Might save you some money.”

“We should get down there before that old man snares one of the officers with his fishing pole,” Pryce grumbled,

maneuvering his way down the slope of stones. He figured he wouldn’t hear the end of this from his partner for days.

“Think we’ll find a connection to the other seven?” she asked, carefully picking her way through the uneven rocks.

“We can only hope,” Pryce said. He stood on the shore and extended his arm toward her, conspicuously eyeing her less-than-practical Calvin Klein pumps. “If you knew we were going to get this call, why didn’t you wear something more functional?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, seconds before she went over on her ankle. She barely managed to keep her balance. “Damn it!”

The two patrolmen, the old fisherman and Pryce all turned their heads toward her and froze. She shot them a foul look and made her way to Pryce’s side.

“Need a hand?” Pryce asked, suppressing a laugh.

“I’m fine,” she said when the silent stares continued. As if on cue, they all re-animated. The old man launched back into his defense, and the patrolmen resumed their dodging of the hook.

“I had to net it, and that’s the last good hook I have,” the old man said, as though explaining something to a small child. He shook his head, and grimaced. “The mackerel only run through here for a few more days. I need my net back!”

Pryce cleared his throat and snatched the wavering pole inches from his face. “Sir, we need to take the net. Like it or not, it’s evidence. And if you hook one of our officers with this, we’ll have to confiscate it as well.”

The old man sighed and lifted his free arm into the air. “Oh, sure! Take an old man’s only source of amusement!”

The skinny officer nodded toward the old man. “This is Mr. Herman Boyd. He found the, uh… evidence.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Sawyer said, then nodded to both officers. “We’ve got it under control.”

Pryce stepped aside and spoke quietly to the dark-haired officer, then turned back toward the old man. “Mr. Boyd, I’m Detective Morgan Pryce and this is my partner, Detective Lexi Sawyer. We’ll have your net back to you as soon as we process it. In the meantime, we’re going to have to ask you to come down to the station to give a statement. That should provide you with some amusement for the afternoon.”

Sawyer scanned along the path of the water and out to the ocean. There were several people paddling around on kayaks, as well as a group of surfers. Farther out there were jet skiers, and beyond them, the dolphin tour boat cruised along. She turned, a frown forming.

“We’re going to have to get the Coast Guard to round them up.”

“No way. Most of them probably got here long after the foot washed up.” Pryce gestured toward the shoe. It was a toner, the kind of walking shoe with curved bottoms that reminded him of a rocking chair, white with mauve striping and laces to match. He never understood why anyone would want to wear something like that. “Another right foot. Looks like a female’s this time.”

“Looks like a woman’s shoe, Pryce, but check out the

ankle. I’m no forensics expert, but I would have to say this one is male.” Sawyer snapped on her latex disposable gloves and opened an evidence bag. She reached inside the net and

untangled the shoe. She then carefully picked up the shoe, complete with the severed foot inside, and dropped it into the bag. It landed inside with a soggy thud. She shuddered.

“You never forget that sound. It wasn’t in the water long either, judging by the lack of decay.”

Pryce took the bag and turned it over. He had to agree with her. The coarse, dark leg hair coating what was left of the ankle seemed to support the theory that this foot came from a man. This one was separated right where the ankle met the foot, just like all the others, and with the same clean cut. The forensic team at the Virginia Beach Police Department had yet to figure out what tool could slice off a human foot straight through the bone like that, and under what conditions. The process of elimination had taken care of most common bladed instruments, leaving them with few possibilities. He suspected that once they figured out the weapon, they wouldn’t be far from finding the killer.

The waves lapped up against the large, round, wire-

encased boulders. Bits of froth and sun-baked seaweed, left behind by outgoing tides, clung to the rocks. The usual squawking of seagulls was distant, as they had crowded around a couple of kids on the beach eating fries.

“Stay here,” Sawyer commanded, pointing at the old man. She and Pryce made their way along the embankment toward the mouth of the inlet. A line of surfers lounged on their boards a hundred yards off shore, bobbing in the

water as they waited for the perfect wave. The man-made channel created ideal surfing conditions as the water piled up and rolled ashore.

The detectives’ eyes were glued to the ground, scanning the edge of the embankment for any sign of evidence. They both knew it was no use, but they had to try. After seven years, they knew the pressure would mount quickly, and they wanted to cover every angle – and their asses. The site was already compromised by all the activity in the area, not to mention the waves erasing potential evidence away with every sweep. After scouring the shoreline for several minutes and coming up empty handed, they headed back toward the old man.

“Let’s get this processed quickly,” Pryce said. “We’ll have the chief up our asses if this affects tourism.”

Sawyer nodded. “And the media won’t be much longer. They had to hear the 10-54 call on their scanners.”

They stepped in front of the old man, who stood watching them with his arms crossed over his chest.

Sawyer pulled out her tablet. She tapped the screen and typed in her notes. Date, time, location, evidence found.

Pryce was more than six inches taller, so he easily read over her shoulder as she scratched down the basics. “North side,” he said, pointing to the spot where she had written Rudee Inlet.

A few years ago, she would have shot him a dirty look for doing that. Now she simply typed “North side” into her note. They had long since given up posturing.

“Tell me how you managed to net the foot, Mr. Boyd.” Sawyer looked up, her eyebrows raised. “Mr. Boyd?”

“Will you look at that,” the old man grumbled. “Old Isaac just caught two bull mackerel! Those should have been mine.”

Sawyer and Pryce exchanged a look. On the south side of the Inlet, a plump, elderly man held up his catch and grinned toward Mr. Boyd. His shouted ‘woo hoo!’ drifted across the water toward them, further infuriating their witness.

“Mr. Boyd,” Pryce said in the most authoritative voice he could muster. “Tell us what happened.”

With a heavy sigh, Herman proceeded with his story. “I got here early this morning, ’cause this here’s the best spot on the inlet. I tossed my line and let it float out. The fish weren’t running yet and it must have drifted into the inlet. The pull almost took the rod from my hands. I thought I caught a sea bass or somethin’. There was no fight to it though, so reeling it in was like hauling dead weight.”

Herman gave Sawyer a sheepish look, then pointed out to the water. “Right out there I noticed it, about twenty yards out. I was dragging it across the top of the water, not pulling it through. It was a floater.”

Sawyer looked at Pryce and frowned. This was the second time one of the severed feet had snagged on someone’s fishing hook. Both fishermen had unhooked the feet, thereby meddling with the evidence. Pryce shook his head. Scolding the old man wouldn’t help anything.

“Please continue, Mr. Boyd,” Pryce said.

“I saw it was a ladies shoe,” Herman said, running his hand through his thinning hair. “Who would do such a thing to a lady?”

When neither detective responded, he continued.

“When I got it close enough, I netted it, and unhooked it.” He must have seen the reproach on the detectives’ faces, because he immediately raised both hands defensively. “It’s my last hook, and the fish won’t be running in a few days. I didn’t want to have to buy a new one.”

“Sorry, Mr. Boyd. It looks like you’re going to have to do just that,” Sawyer said.

“And we’re going to have to take this down to the station,” Pryce said, nodding toward the street.

Sawyer followed Pryce’s gaze. “Damn. That was fast.”

Back on the street, a short, dark-haired woman jumped out of a large blue television news van. They recognized her instantly as Marissa Woods, the pushy woman from Channel 10 News – the station’s top crime reporter. Sawyer and Pryce couldn’t hear her because she was so far away, but they read her body language. She was scrambling around and barking directions to someone in the back of the truck.

Herman Boyd looked from the detectives to the news van, and then back again. The light of recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Do you think it was the Footloose Killer?”

Both detectives cringed. Whenever the press named

serial killers, it seemed to make the situation worse for the detectives by whipping the general public into a frenzy. The title “Footloose Killer” was coined during an interview between a local television reporter and the person who discovered the third foot. The reporter went with it, and the name stuck. This new foot was the fifth since then, and even though the feet only showed up once a year, it was the favorite topic among the locals.

“I don’t know, Mr. Boyd,” Pryce said with a nod toward the reporter. “But I’m sure she’ll say it is, no matter what the evidence says.”

As the forensic team arrived, Sawyer and Pryce hustled Herman back to their car and got him settled in the back seat. The last thing they needed was a confrontation with Marissa Woods. They took the evidence with them to keep it off the news and it was stashed safely in the trunk before the cameras were running. Both detectives breathed a sigh of relief. They let Herman carry his fishing rod. The car was a standard, unmarked, black Crown Victoria with a trunk bigger than most, but the detectives didn’t want the line to get tangled up with the other evidence.

Marissa was too busy making her way to the crime scene to notice them slip away.

“I’ll drive,” Pryce said, walking toward the driver’s side.

“Not a chance, Morgan,” Sawyer said flatly. “You lost the bet. He’s back, right on schedule.”

“Or she,” Pryce said with a smirk. He walked back over to the passenger side. “Well, if we’re going to catch him this time, we better get moving.”

“True enough.”

Pryce paused and looked at Sawyer over the shiny roof of the large, black sedan. “I think he’s a tourist and probably won’t be in town much longer.”

“If he’s a tourist, he’s a regular one,” Sawyer said. She reached down and grabbed the door handle, but didn’t pull it open. “We should check out the timeshares. Something has to match.”

Pryce nodded and opened his door, marking the end of private conversation. They had checked out the timeshares two years ago, but none of the visitors seemed to match up with the murders. It was hard to pinpoint the times of death for any of the victims, considering the lack of evidence, but they had narrowed it down within 24 hours, based on when the victims went missing and how soon after their feet were discovered. Not the most accurate method, but it was all they had.

Maybe they’d get lucky this year. Maybe they’d even manage to stumble across a body with only one foot.

 

Michelle L. Johnson is an author, editor, event organizer and entrepreneur. Her short story, The Tree, was published in America’s Got Stories Volume I, and she edited Sherry A. Burton’s novel, Tears of Betrayal, released September 2011, and has completed Ms. Burton’s second novel, The Scars Between Us, released January 2012.

Michelle is currently revising a supernatural thriller, writing a memoir, and is co-writing a play with award-winning playwright Michael Stephen Myers. She has been a columnist and book reviewer for Tidewater Women Magazine and occasionally reviews books on her blog.

Michelle is the former owner of Cozy Corner Writers’ Center and Bookstore in Virginia Beach, VA, owned and managed bookstores in Canada for several years, and has organized countless special events for Hampton Roads area artists, including book launches, book signings and community gatherings.

Always interested in the improvement of her craft, she is an active participant in writing workshops and studios. She currently participates in a Fiction Writing Workshop and a Memoir Writing Studio program, the latter instructed by best-selling author Janine Latus (If I am Missing or Dead).

 

Blog: Magical Things. Beautiful Things.

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