Indiscriminate

INDISCRIMINATE

Howard Olsen

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2001, 2012 by Howard Olsen

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, restored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written consent from the author.

ISBN: 978-0-7596-2082-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-7596-2083-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-7596-2081-0 (e)

1stBooks - rev. 6/27/2012

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the chief of staff of the Massachusetts medical examiner’s office, Doctor Stanton C. Kessler, for his generous contribution and expertise in helping with the research of this book. Few professionals would have set aside their well deserved and personal time to help someone they didn’t know.

As always, I would like to thank my editor, mentor and friend, Bev Walton-Porter, for the professional and unselfish pursuit of quality she instills in everyone around her.

About the Book

Jake thought he’d left the stress of the Salem police department far behind when he left the force and opened up his own literary haven, a small bookstore named Books. But when a series of brutal and vicious killings grips the city by the throat, Jake’s called back to duty and into a tangled web of murder, mystique and witchy mayhem. Faced with a diabolical killer with a marred past and bent on a twisted revenge, Jake’s wits and wisdom are pushed to the limit. Can he stop the sadistic killings before they destroy the town and Jake himself? Dive into the suspense and intrigue of Indiscriminate, the third book by Salem-based author Howard Olsen — but only if you thrive on the thrill of a cunning mystery.

This book is dedicated to the 156 people who had legal action brought against them for witchcraft in the late 1600’s. Twenty people in Massachusetts were executed for being a witch:

Hanged on June 10, 1692

Bridget Bishop, Salem.

Hanged on July 19, 1692

Sarah Good, Salem Village – Rebecca Nurse, Salem Village – Susannah Martin, Amesbury – Elizabeth How, Ipswich – Sarah Wilds, Topsfield.

Hanged on August 19, 1692

George Burroughs, Wells, Maine – John Proctor, Salem Village – John Willard, Salem Village – George Jacobs, Salem Town – Martha Carrier, Andover.

September 19, 1692

Giles Corey, Salem Farms – pressed to death.

Hanged on September 22, 1692

Martha Corey, Salem Farms – Mary Eastey, Topsfield – Alice Parker, Salem Town – Ann Pudeater, Salem Town – Margaret Scott, Rowley – Wilmott Reed, Marblehead – Samuel Wardwell, Andover and Mary Parker, Andover.

Other accused witches who were not hanged, but died in prison awaiting trial for witchcraft: Sarah Osborne, Salem Village – Roger Toothaker, Billerica – Lyndia Dustin, Reading and Ann Foster, Andover.

Thirteen others may have also died in prison, but sources conflict on the exact number. No one really knows if any or all of the people who were executed were actually witches.

You do not know my heart. I am as clear as the child unborn.

Rebecca Nurse, Salem Village, March 24, 1692

I thank God I am free.

Sarah Wilds, Topsfield, April 21, 1692

One

S alem, Massachusetts is one of the most festive cities in the world during the Fourth of July holiday. With almost forty thousand residents, fireworks, parties and family gatherings are at the top of most people’s holiday agendas. On Friday, July 2, Jake Burnett was like everyone else, looking forward to the holiday festivities.

Jake owned and operated a small bookstore called Books, located on Essex Street in the heart of Salem. At one time, Essex Street was paved with cobblestone and cars used its path to travel through town and shop in the many small stores that bordered both sides of the street.

The cobblestones have long been removed and the new age of brick has taken over. The entire street is covered with bright red brick. As the seasons came and went for many years, the weather has caused slight frost heaves in the brick giving it a rustic and beautiful appearance.

Although there are still many small businesses, there are no cars driving through the center of Essex Street. Tourists by the thousands flock to Salem every year and are able to walk through the center of Salem without bumping into traffic. Salem’s history of the witch trials has drawn an enormous tourist industry and most businesses have catered to their query. Every knickknack, hat and tee shirt reads Witch City this, or Witch City that. Salem even has its own authentic witch, Laurie Cabot, who also owns and operates a small business on Pickering Wharf called The Cat, the Crow and the Crown.

Three theaters that once attracted hundreds of local moviegoers have been torn down in favor of mini malls and modern office space. Jake Burnett was one of the locals, but he hardly remembered the movie theaters; they were torn down when he was very young. As an ex-Salem police detective, he recalled the old police station on Central Street and still harbored ill feelings of it being abandoned in favor of a larger, more modern facility on Margin Street.

Jake sat quietly in a fold-up chair in front of his store, watching and listening to the tourists as they walked past. Many of the women who passed by couldn’t help but notice him. Standing at only five-feet-nine-inches tall, his 180-pound frame was muscular, toned and impressive. His wavy brown hair always gave him the look of needing a haircut. His teeth were straight and white when he smiled and this coupled with his tight frame always turned women’s heads

He heard the accents of the people as they stopped and pointed to all the things that they’d read about and now were finally able to see in person.

German, French, English, Jake noted as he heard them talk to one another. They come from all over the world to take in the history that most Salem residents take for granted.

Even at 5:00 in the afternoon the sun was hot and blistering, and with the humidity above ninety percent, shorts and tank tops was the dress code of the day.

Jake glanced at his watch and decided it was time to close shop. He folded his chair and put it away along with two racks of books he displayed in front of his store. Standing at the front door, getting ready to lock up for the night, he turned and glanced back. He couldn’t help but notice how everything matched, the bookshelves, tables, desk and even the old wooden floors. Not only did everything appear to be made from the same type of wood, the color matched perfectly. He thought, if I didn’t know better I would think I was color coordinated.

The only thing on his mind was a cool shower and a short walk to Pickering Wharf for a cold beer at the Chase House.

This local watering hole served most of the small shop owners in the area. The Chase House was famous for its food, and since it was located right on the water, its atmosphere was second to none.

After locking the store Jake walked down the alley where his 1965 Corvette Stingray was parked. He stopped, stared at his metallic blue Corvette and marveled at its sleek outline. He loved his car and took exceptional care of its maintenance. Gotta get you an oil change, baby. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel. After starting the engine he backed out of his parking space and turned right onto Central Street and past the old police station. Glancing up at the old red brick building as he drove past, Jake made no attempt to squelch the feelings he held inside. He felt like he’d lost an old friend when the old, weather-beaten station was abandoned.

Turning left onto Lafayette Street, Jake headed for home. Approaching the intersection, the traffic light turned red. Why is it I never make this light? Jake said out loud. I’ve had a red light at this intersection for as long as I can remember! Turning up the volume on his Corvette’s custom stereo, Jake tapped his hand on the steering wheel to the beat of Ninety Miles An Hour by John Berry.

He noticed two girls standing in front of the Engine House Restaurant. When he turned up the stereo they began dancing to the beat—it was obvious they wanted him to notice them. One girl hollered, Can we come for a ride in your ‘Vette?

Another time, Jake hollered back as the light turned green. He revved the engine and shot through the intersection. Teenyboppers, they have no clue. I could be a serial killer.

Jake lived on Lafayette Street only two blocks before the Salem State College. He pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine. Staring at his huge two-story home, he remembered when his mother and father had lived with him. He remembered how his mother would call him in the morning for breakfast, and how his father would always add, She means now, Jake!

A large grin spread across his face when he thought of his parents. His father retired from General Electric Corporation in Lynn, in 1995. Jake’s mother, a registered nurse at Salem hospital, retired two months later. Jake bought the house he was born in on 242 Lafayette Street from his parents when they moved to a retirement community in Florida. I gotta call them tonight, he reminded himself.

After showering and getting dressed, Jake called his parents in Florida. His mother overreacted as usual when he called. What’s wrong, Jason? And, as usual, he assured her nothing was wrong and that he simply wanted to say hello.

They chatted awhile and then hung up. Jake was anxious to get to the Chase House early to find a table on the deck overlooking the water.

When he went to turn off the television a news bulletin pre-empted the regular programming.

The reporter for channel four repeated the broadcast, The fully clothed body of twenty-two-year-old Sally Grogan was found on Gallows Hill in Salem, late this morning. An unverified source said she might have been strangled, but until the autopsy is performed, the cause of death remains unknown.

A surge of fear and uneasiness ran through Jake. His mind wandered back eight years to when a young girl was savagely beaten, raped and strangled. He had been assigned the case and it took an emotional toll on him. He couldn’t sleep and worked on this case for eight months, never taking a day off. When he finally arrested the murderer, it was as though a huge weight was removed from his shoulders. He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the vision.

The two young girls on the corner flashed through Jake’s mind. Why the hell don’t these kids stop and think? He wondered.

Jake turned off the television and walked outside. He decided to drive to the Chase House and hopped over the closed driver seat door and slid behind the wheel. Within five minutes he turned right onto Congress Street, then left into the parking lot where he could safely park his Stingray.

At 6:00 p.m. there were plenty of tables and booths available inside and, out on the deck. Jake peered through the plate glass window and noticed his friend, Dang Dung, sitting at a table on the deck. He was reading and sipping on some sort of fruit drink.

Dang was Vietnamese and was born in Salem. At twenty-eight years old and only 5’7" and 150 pounds, he wasn’t the least bit threatening. He was a master of many forms of the martial arts, including Karate, Kung Fu and Aikido. His placid appearance, coupled with his mild manner often-enticed bullies to pick fights with him. Dang always backed away and tried to avoid an altercation, but when the fight seemed to be unavoidable he fought with fury.

Jake walked out on the deck and sat with his friend. Without looking up, Dang said, Where the hell have you been? Being so hot today I thought you’d have closed the store and been here earlier.

Some of us have to work, ya know. Jake waved for a waitress. What are you reading now? Another child psychology book?

Yes, Dang replied without looking up, there are new theories being developed every year and I have to be aware of new technology if I’m going to do my job properly.

What are you drinking, Jake asked, same juice-shit as usual?

Yes, Dang replied, same juice-shit as usual.

Let me buy you a beer, Jake offered.

Dang slowly lifted his head from the book. You’ve been asking to buy me a beer for the past seven years. My answer hasn’t changed, Jake. No thanks. You know I don’t drink.

Dang, Jake’s voice changed to almost a whisper. Did you hear about the kid that was murdered on Gallows Hill?

Dang closed his book and nodded. I have a hard time comprehending how anyone could do that? To snuff out a life in such a brutal way. They said she was strangled and left out in the open for someone to find.

I’ll have a Coors Lite, Jake said as the waitress walked past. Lowering his voice again, Jake added, I don’t know why, but I have a real bad feeling about this. I hope I’m wrong.

What kind of feeling?

Don’t know for sure, just a bad feeling. I think I’ll ask around and see if I can come up with something.

Jake, Dang said, don’t make this murder an instant replay of eight years ago. You were so possessed with finding the man who killed that girl that your personality changed. You turned violent and belligerent in a matter of days. You found nothing wrong with beating answers out of anyone. That’s one of the reasons you’re not a police officer anymore. You know Captain Reins doesn’t look upon you as one of his own. In fact, he doesn’t look upon you as being a member of the human race. He won’t stand by and allow you to conduct your own investigation.

Bull Reins is half-witted fucking idiot, Jake snapped. He couldn’t conduct an investigation in his own living room. He cares more about looking good in the media than he cares about digging out the truth.

Jake’s mind raced back five years to when he resigned from the Salem police department. Or, more accurately, was forced to resign due to an out-of-proportion investigation spearheaded by Bull Reins. Captain Reins didn’t like the methods Jake used to obtain information during an investigation.

Reins’ reason for the attack on Jake’s ability to perform police work was centered on the violent method he used. Detective Jason Burnett is a disgrace to the department, began Reins’ opening statement at the internal affairs hearing. He made reference to four different cases where Jake actually beat the answers from a suspect. He went after the detective with a vengeance, and he won. Jake resigned a week later.

Jake shook his head clearing the vision of Bull Reins from his mind. He looked up and noticed Cameron Baird standing in front of one of the little shops that bordered both sides of small, almost path-like, streets on Pickering Wharf.

Cam, as he was referred to on the street, was the lowest form of life on the planet, according to Jake. A drug dealer, whose customers were mostly children. He was thirty-years-old and had never held a job, other than destroying as many lives as possible. Most of his teeth were missing and the few he had left in his mouth were rotten and green. His greasy brown hair lay on his shoulders like matted animal fur after coming in from the rain. At 6’4" and only 130 pounds, his appearance was disgusting.

I’ll be back, Jake said. Save my seat.

Dang watched as his friend got up and walked toward the street. He didn’t know why he left until he saw Cameron Baird. Christ, Jake, he said out loud, you’re not on the police force anymore.

Without looking at Dang, Jake walked away saying, Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Walking up behind Baird, Jake remained silent. He didn’t want to have to chase the junkie through Pickering Wharf. He knew this low-life had nothing to do with the murder of the young girl, but knew Baird would have some information about it. Cameron Baird knew something about every illegal activity in and around Salem.

Baird turned and saw Jake walking toward him. His first instinct was to run until he heard Jake say, "Don’t make me chase you, Cam. That will really piss me off."

Baird stood motionless and waited for Jake. Ah, hey Jake, he said, What up?

Jake said nothing as he approached. He looked into Baird’s eyes and saw how nervous he was. This observation solidified Jake’s suspicion about something illegal going down. Why don’t you tell me, Cam? Why don’t you tell me why you’re hanging out in this neighborhood? You aren’t here selling that shit again. Are ya, Cam?

No way, Jake. He shifted nervously. I don’t do that shit no more. Honest Jake, I’m clean.

Jake stood still as Baird took two steps backward and wiped the back of his hand across his nose. You’re fucking disgusting, Jake said. You make my skin crawl. Why don’t you clean yourself up?

Before Baird could answer, Jake said, I need some information.

Ah…sure Jake, Baird’s voice trembled, what you wanna know?

Jake looked away. A girl was murdered at Gallows Hill. Without moving his head, Jake’s eyes met Baird’s revolting stare. I need some information on how she died.

I hear she was strangled, the junkie replied.

You heard a lot more than that, Jake barked. "Don’t fuck with me. You know every sleazy thing that happens in Essex County. I want to know how she was strangled."

Baird looked nervously over each shoulder and stepped to within six inches of Jake. He leaned down and softly said, I have this friend on the newspaper, ya know, a reporter.

Jake moved his head back to avoid the stench of Baird’s breath. Don’t you ever brush your fucking teeth? Jake exhaled, hoping he could blow the bad breath away from his face.

Baird talked as if the insult held no merit. He said there was a rope around the chick’s neck, tied in a hangman’s noose. Said there was about two feet of rope.

Cam, Jake said, why the hell would a reporter confide in a fucking low-life like you? Do you expect me to believe you entered a new circle of friends? Jake’s tone was cold.

Honest, Jake, Baird said, this reporter buys stuff from me once in a while. We got high and he just started talking about how gruesome the body looked with the rope around her neck. That’s the truth, Jake—honest.

You said you weren’t into that shit anymore. Were you lying then, or are you lying now?

Baird said nothing, looking like a child who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Jake turned and walked away. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Baird. "I want you to keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear anything, you better call me. Don’t make me come looking for you."

No problem, Jake. You got it. Baird nervously turned and walked away.

Jake returned to his friend and sat down. He lifted his beer and took a long swallow. It’s warm, he said, I hate warm beer.

What was that all about? Dang asked.

The murdered girl at Gallows Hill, Jake replied, something’s bothering me about this one. I don’t know what it is, but I have a nightmarish feeling this is only the beginning.

Only the beginning? Dang looked perplexed. Do you think this is the start of a serial murder spree? What the hell makes you think that? One murder doesn’t constitute a murder spree.

Jake held the bottle of warm beer in his hand. It was wet with condensation and large drops of water slowly snaked down the sides. Looking over the railing of the deck and into the water, Jake simply said, I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling the nightmare has only begun.

By 8:00 p.m., the Chase House was packed with the regular Friday night crowd and Jake decided it was time to head for home. The thought of the young murdered girl lingered in the back of his mind and he couldn’t propel himself into a party mood.

He said goodbye to Dang and left the Chase House. Walking through the parking lot toward his ‘Vette, he noticed Bill Stoughton walking toward him. Jake thought Stoughton a bit odd and didn’t usually go out of his way to engage in conversation with him.

Stoughton was a consultant to a number of companies on the North Shore. His forte was helping corporations weed out malcontents and he had often been used by the police department for profiling fugitives. Hey, Jake, Stoughton said, it’s only eight o’clock. Where are you going this early? His tone was bubbly and annoying.

Jake didn’t give him a reason, but asked, You still doing profiling for the department?

Jake’s question infused a sense of power into Stoughton’s manner. He stood tall with his hands folded across his chest as if to say, Yes, and that makes me important.

As a matter of fact, I did receive a call from Captain Reins. He wants me to come to his office in the morning to discuss a case. I’m willing to bet he needs my help to find out who killed that girl at Gallows Hill. Stoughton’s face beamed with