“Good God, look at that load of meat on the hoof,” homicide detective Virginia Stoddard leaned down to peer beneath the squad car sun-visor at the three young studs standing around the Help the Homeless stand on the busy corner of Main and 14th.
Two, resplendent in their dress blue U.S. Marine uniforms, stood joking with a third in a clown suit. Stoddard could see from the fine fit and ass line of the clown, that no fat boy was hiding inside. The clown would look as good out of that get up as his two uniformed companions. Their display was set up on the hood of a plain jane, obvious U.S. Marine vehicle.
Stoddard was on route to a homicide further east on Main and had missed the light at the male-stud-on-the-hoof stand she was ogling. As she caught the green and cleared the intersection, one of the uniforms, seeing her staring, winked at her.
Stoddard was twenty-nine, a homicide dick three years, and two years divorced. The hours and lack of a regular bed partner had left her sex life a discouraging catch as catch can situation – usually no catch at all. Slender, with long blonde hair, knockers to brag about, and a pleasant smile, sexual frustration was hard to explain for an attractive lady. In plain English, she was horny.
Stoddard pushed under the yellow barricade tape and walked into hell. Mrs. Velma Washington, 85 and two years a widow, had been butchered. Her head posed on a bedroom chair, the room was strung with entrails, blood, and gore, and smothered with the smell of decaying human flesh.
“Any suspects?” Stoddard asked a young patrolman. She’d already appraised his ass and gauged it was close to but slightly inferior to the caliber of the three juicy young specimens she’s just spotted down the street.
“Yeah, detective,” he replied. Tall, with sandy hair and virginal looks made concentration on what he said a chore. “Neighbors report a skinny punk, white, a thousand tattoos, wearing a yellow T-shirt had been knocking on doors asking for work…or a handout. Looks like a home invasion robbery gone bad.”
“Wait…wait,” she squinted. “I know this bastard. Hadda complaint of him trying to extort an older lady just down the street last week.” The thumbed her notebook. “Former resident around here. No name ID yet and we haven’t been able to locate his ass. Maybe we’ll try a bit harder now.”
He cellular buzzed. A young dispatcher briefed her on a knife attack on three Marines manning a charitable stand at 14th and Main. One had been stabbed. The assailant had been killed by a passing city bus in the melee.
Stoddard reasoned the attack had to involve the three young hunks she’s seen fifteen minutes before. She hurried to County General to find the two uniformed Marines standing around the emergency corridor.
She flashed her badge. “How bad?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, poor Marine.”
“No Ma’am, the guy in the bloody yellow T-shirt and a thousand tattoos who tried to steal our car. Charlie got a minor cut on his left forearm. Doc’s behind that curtain stitching it up. We told the wienie all he needed was a band aide, but the ambulance driver insisted.”
The curtain opened and a young intern motioned them inside. “He’ll be fine,” she said.
The clown, stretched out on the gurney buck naked, was even more delectable than Stoddard had imagined. He made no attempt to cover up.
All three explained disjointedly the assailant, who matched the description exactly of the murderer of Mrs. Washington, had stabbed the Marine in the clown outfit and demanded the keys to their vehicle. They’d disarmed him and he’d darted in front of a speeding bus, his remains spreading along fifty feet of asphalt.
Stoddard studied the three closely. “Guys, the station’s way down town and I only live a few minutes away. I could take your statements in comfort?”
“Semper Fi, ma’am…anything to uphold the law.” The same Marine who’d winked at her, said.
She watched the clown on the guerney pull on street clothes, trying her damnedest not to salivate. Tonight, her luck was going to change…maybe times three. God, she was glad she had that unopened quart of Jack Daniels.
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued, lied to and about, and frequently misunderstood. With a hundred short pieces published in various venues, a novel: Burn Sugar Burn published in national paperback, and an anthology of short stories on Amazon.com: Biggest Balls in Sanderson County, he is now retired to a dusty North Texas ranch where he doesn’t much give a damn if school keeps or not. Clifton blogs at http://www. bareknucklethoughts.org/