his front pocket. With both hands he manipulated the small metallic rod and file, slowing himself when he felt he was making too much noise, even though it was barely audible. Years of doing the same, on more sophisticated locks, made the old skeleton lock open without much of a challenge. He returned the pick set to his pocket and pulled the knife again from the sheath before entering the room. The door opened without a sound, he closed it but did not allow the lock to fully latch. Standing within the very room that he had only taken pictures of the week before, thrilled the assailant. He concentrated on keeping his breathing under control, slowing his heart and perspiration in the process. Lester held the knife in his right hand as he approached the sleeping Blanche. To have her so close, so vulnerable, was mind blowing for the thief. He yearned to slide into bed with her and prove his love for the woman, but he knew better, at least for now. With the knife in his right hand he approached the bed standing inches from the edge and within reach of the woman’s throat.
Lester loomed over the woman, taking in her beauty, hair swept across a portion of her forehead, her face fully exposed to him as she slept on her back. The perp couldn’t pass up the opportunity. The small digital camera was extracted from his rear jean’s pocket and he took a picture of the slumbering damsel. He contemplated the possibility of removing her tonight, half convincing himself that it could be done without disturbing the others, but he had come unprepared, no ether and no plausible way to keep her quiet.
“Only a few hours,” he told himself, and she would willingly give herself to him, but his patience was at its limit.
He wanted and needed to feel her soft skin, to know the sensation of skin on skin with the striking beauty. Lester peeled the glove from his left hand, partially sticking it into his jean’s pocket, and brought the razor sharp knife blade within an inch of the sleeping woman’s jugular. He would need to control her if she suddenly awoke. With the left hand exposed he placed it as close as he dared below his sleeping victim’s nose. The feel of her breath caressing, then ebbing and returning to caress his hand again, made him feel invincible. He looked closely at her face, so perfect, light freckles scattered across her delicate nose, her lips slightly parted calling for a kiss. Leaning in close, his hand pulled away from her face but the knife still in place, he inspected her closely, taking in the smell of her skin as he did so.
The Stalker detected movement under her lids, Blanche's eyes moving back and forth, right and left in a rapid saccadic motion. She was dreaming, he’d seen it before and knew what it was. The idea excited him as he closely watched her closed eyes wondering if she was thinking of him after he ruffled her feathers earlier in the day. His will power was fading. To touch her once would be ecstasy and would possibly be worth the risk, but he fought off the urge and settled for running his hand over the sleeping woman’s figure just an inch above the single sheet that covered her motionless form. The knife, still very close to her throat, did not vary as he extended his left hand above her navel. The Stalker was able to see through the thin sheet revealing a tiny nightgown, hiked up, and showing the outline of her panties underneath. Slowly he moved his hand upward over her flat stomach to the rise of her breasts, which strained against the fabric of the sheet. He stopped, his hand just above the breast closest to him and ached to touch and squeeze her.
Behind him he heard the creaking of an old door opening, he wheeled quickly but without sound to see Blanche’s still in place. His breathing stopped as he listened for further indication that someone was up. Footsteps moved down the hallway just outside the door and he moved to see what and who it was. As the muffled noise moved beyond Blanche’s room he pulled the door in just enough to look into the hallway. An older woman dressed in a robe and slippers, her head wrapped with toilet paper, was making her way down the hall. Lester watched her closely as she opened a door, flipped on a light and stepped inside.
“Must be the bathroom,” he thought.
He watched and waited for her to make the return trip, closing the door slightly so he could still listen to her pass. A few minutes later she did and he could hear the toilet flush as she exited the bathroom. Caroline moved down the hall and back to her own room without any concern and was once again safely tucked away behind a locked door. The intruder breathed a sigh of relief but knew it was time to go. As he stood across the room, he once again removed the camera and took a departing picture of the still restful woman, returned the camera and knife to their places and slipped out the door, carefully closing and latching it behind him.
Lester made it back to his van in the early morning hours and climbed behind the wheel for the drive home. The packet he was anticipating should be there and he could make the final plans for his departure the following day. He removed the key from his front pocket and inserted it into the ignition, starting the car with the help of some pressure on the accelerator. He grasped the wheel with both hands, expecting to see both covered with a glove, but only the right was thusly encased. His mind dashed back through the last few minutes and remembered that he had stuck the glove in his front pocket when he had felt Blanche’s breath. He reached down to secure the glove and put it with the other in the van. It was gone! Lester scrambled from the idling van and looked on the ground but it was nowhere in sight. Again he ran his hands through his pockets, front and back, it was definitely gone.
Now sitting safely in his own drive, he continued to berate himself for being so careless, however, he would soon be gone and the glove would provide the authorities with only the smallest of advantages. Exhausted and needing to get to bed, he made the walk back to the distressed mailbox one last time. His steps were plodding, fatigue setting in, but he wanted to see if the parcel was there. He opened the latch as he had done now for the third time in as many weeks and saw the familiar manila envelope inside. He withdrew it but it was heavier than he had expected.
Inside the house, with the kitchen light on, he opened the envelope and inspected the contents. A woman’s picture slid out first, followed by a newly cut key. The woman was attractive, a bit heavy set perhaps but pretty features. He tipped the enclosure higher and a stack of worn twenties landed on the table with a mild thud.
“That’s nice!” he said.
Lastly a stack of documents with a cover letter slid from the envelope, an explanation given just as Jeremy had given it to Iggy. The ‘outing’ must take place tonight at 8:00 p.m., he would have the house to himself for a few hours to tear it apart. The remaining information was similar to that previously provided, address, general information about the owner, the layout of the home and a few odds and ends. Sounded easy enough, the money was a bonus for a job well done.
“At least they appreciate excellence when they see it,” he again said aloud.
Lester Cummings was about to retire and he was tired but exhilarated knowing that the end of one life was in sight and the beginning of another within his reach.
He spoke to the picture of the woman, “Well, Ms. Beverly Davis, looks like you’re my ticket to paradise.”
Thursday morning Sheriff Angelo Lupo sat in his office, facing three of his subordinates, looking for answers. Deputies Guest and Breland sat with their hats in their hands, Ricky Dean held a ream of documents on his lap using them as a platform for his notebook computer, which he had on and opened. The group had been in conference for over an hour, bringing the Sheriff up to date on the progress with The Stalker case. The Sheriff did not look happy.
“I get the feeling people, that once Mr. Wood was taken into custody we let our guard down. Granted there have been no further break-ins since his arrest but my gut tells me we’ve got the wrong guy sitting back there,” he said, motioning to the cell area.
Ricky Dean nodded his head in agreement. He had been the hero last week but lately his department had been under the gun to provide something that would break the case open. That lingering bit of information had yet to be uncovered. For the past hour he had gone over the reasons why it was highly unlikely that Seymour was The Stalker but could not rule him out as the shooter in the Jackson shooting.
“Okay Ricky, let me run this back and you tell me if I’ve got it,” the Sheriff said. “The fibers collected at the Wood residence do not match any of the fiber evidence you’ve collected at any of the crime scenes, and the castings made of Seymour’s foot do not match the Nike’s we’ve processed at the scenes either. Have I got it right so far?”
“Yup, sure ‘nough Sheriff,” Ricky agreed. “His feet are at least two shoe sizes bigger.”
“So what you are saying, and listen up you two,” he said, looking at his deputies. “There’s no way, based on the evidence alone, that Seymour Wood can be The Stalker!” again Ricky expressed his agreement.
“Then tell me you three, how did Seymour wind up with a gun stolen from our third crime scene and used in a shooting of a black man on the other side of town. I’m inclined to believe every word that has come out of Mr. Woods’s mouth. There doesn’t seem to me to be any plausible explanation other than he’s being set-up. I want to
