The sun filtered through the forest, raising the humidity and leaving patches of light on the decaying leaf-covered ground. The heat in mid-August in Kentucky could be brutal in the woods, especially after a rain. Little breeze passed through the thick vegetation. The stillness was suffocating.
Clouds of no-see-ums, tiny biting gnats, floated in the air waiting for their next victim. Invisible spider webs captured prey and covered the face of anyone unlucky enough to pass through them.
William Martin gently waved at the gnats to clear them from his eyes. Sweat rolled down his face and back, making the hunt more difficult. A deer would feed the family for a couple of weeks and there should be one near the spring-fed creek at the bottom of the hollow.
He slowly descended the hill making little noise while watching for copperheads and rattlesnakes known to inhabit the area known as Lapland. It was a wild and uninhabited region filled with danger but also filled with abundant game. Millions of acorns from the red oak and white oak trees fed the herds of whitetail deer living in the forest. They left the narrow path he followed.
As William neared the flowing water, he heard splashing. He stopped, listened, and raise the flintlock. Two more steps and he saw the culprit making the noise.
It was not the deer he expected but a young woman washing and playing in the cool, refreshing water. Her long black hair reached halfway to her knees and shone against her alabaster skin.
Martin knew her. At least he knew who she was. He was reluctant to approach her fearful that she would place a curse on him. He squatted on his haunches and watched her bathe. The buckskin clothes he wore camouflaged him against the dead leaves on the forest floor.
She was rumored to be a witch who predicted events before they happened and even cast spells on those that feared her.
Her mother, father, two sisters, and brother died from the cholera wave that swept through the town in 1829 killing over half of the residents. She was nine years old and accurately predicted the deaths of all that passed during the epidemic. Her last birthday marked her twentieth.
For the past eleven years, Clara lived in a six-foot by eight-foot square smokehouse on the outskirts of the small town. It was all left of her family home. Everything else was burned to prevent the spread of the disease that killed over half of the residents of the town.
She fashioned furniture from scraps of lumber picked up from the never-ending construction expanding the village and built some from saplings cut down along the river bank.
She erected a lean-to along the south side of her shed and shingled it with bark skinned from beech trees. It was here that she built her fires, smoked meat, and cooked. Seeds saved from previous years were planted for vegetables and dried for the winter.
Food grown in her small garden was supplemented by plants and wild fruit growing in the fertile woods and fields along the Ohio River. Autumn allowed walnuts, hazelnuts, and hickory nuts to be collected and dried.
Her collection of herbs was dried and many hung from the makeshift ceiling of the lean-to.
Fish were plentiful and she was proficient in catching them in bentwood traps fashioned from hickory limbs and wild grape vines. An occasional snapping turtle found its way into the traps. Though hard to clean, they made a wonderful stew when mixed with root vegetables from her garden.
Snares caught rabbits, groundhogs, raccoons, and squirrels to add protein for her table. Their skins were tanned and provided warm winter clothing. The meat not immediately eaten was preserved by smoking and salting.
The spring and fall saw the flocks of ducks and geese landing along the river and creeks. They were caught. The meat was eaten or preserved and the down was saved and traded for cloth, sugar, and wheat flour from the small general store in the center of town or tanned deer hides from the hunters that stalked the area.
Clara skillfully fashioned and sewed her own clothes.
The winter cold prevented searching for fresh foods. Fish and meat were preserved with salt from a deposit along an underground spring and hickory limbs were dried for smoking.
Firewood was collected year round and stacked for cooking and heating the small shed during the winter.
She learned self-sufficiency from her mother. Clara became very good at it. She had to in order to survive.
Her most prized possessions were an iron kettle, a large knife, an iron poker, and a small axe left when her family died.
Clara was left to fend for herself. Her neighbors feared her powers and did not help her. Her only friend was an old Indian called Indian Joe. He helped her by teaching her more about the land and how to survive in it.
None of this crossed the mind of the man watching the naked young woman in the stream. Though his wife and three sons were waiting for him to return with fresh venison, his focus was concentrated on Clara. His arousal eliminated his fear and he decided to advance towards her, hoping to relieve the pressure building in his loins.
The crack of a breaking twig beneath his foot alerted her to his presence. Clara looked up to see him and scrambled out of the water to grab her gown hanging on a nearby limb. She covered herself and yelled, “William Martin, what are you doing?! You are spying on me! For that, you shall be punished!”
He stopped, diverted his gaze. He stuttered, “I thought you… you were a deer.”
“Turn your back to me so I can dress.”
His face turned red and he complied.
Clara pulled the loose-fitting gown over her head and covered herself with the white garment, her wet hair dripping down her back. “You should be ashamed of yourself watching me take my bath. What would your preacher say?! What would your wife say?!”
“It was an accident! Really I thought you were a deer!” he said as he hanged his head. “Please don’t tell the preacher or my wife! Please!” he begged.
“I’ll say nothing. Let this be the last time. Be on your way William Martin, so I can finish cleaning myself.”
Without a word, he turned and skulked up the trail and over the hill.
She watched him go out of sight, waited several minutes, and heard nothing. Clara pulled off her gown and returned to the water.
Little did she know that he had hidden behind a large red oak tree and watched as she finished washing her slender, beautiful body.
Clara left the stream, placed her dress on a bare flat rock in a sunny area and laid on it to dry. Though it was humid, the summer heat dried her in minutes. She dressed and headed into the woods.
William waited until she was gone and continued his hunt. She was still on his mind when he spotted a doe about forty yards away. He took careful aim, pulled the trigger on the old flintlock rifle and the deer dropped.
Clara heard the shot and believed that William really was only hunting and stumbled across her while she was washing. She would forgive him.
She continued her search for pawpaw trees to pick some ripe fruits. The sweet flesh was very tasty. She found a tree and picked up several that had fallen to the ground and were not consumed by the animals roaming the area. Clara lifted the hem of her skirt to carry half a dozen back to her shack.
William hoisted the carcass to his shoulders and carried it back to his cabin. His wife Martha watched as he skinned and butchered the animal. She immediately took the liver and heart and started cooking them before they spoiled in the heat. His three sons gathered salt and wood to preserve the remaining meat.
Martha sensed something amiss with William. He was quieter than normal and terse with her and their sons. Something was wrong and she knew it. Her intuition told her to be wary.
He still worried about Clara and hoped she would not tell anyone about their encounter. She was still on his mind. His wife was jealous and the preacher would shun him publicly for months. The entire community would turn against him, yet he fixated on her nude beauty. His mind thought of nothing else and he imagined being with her. She became his obsession.
The next day he told his wife that he was going hunting again to get more venison to preserve for the oncoming winter. It was too early in the season to start preserving game. She knew he was lying.
He started for Clara’s bathing spot in the creek and returned to the place where he hid the day before and waited. After a couple of hours, she showed up, peeled off her dress, and stepped gingerly into the cool water.
William crept back up the hill making no sound, crossed the creek, and made his way to where she was washing. She finished and again laid on her stomach on the flat rock to dry. The calmness allowed her to fall asleep.
His fear of the curse was forgotten. He slowly and quietly snuck up behind her, pulled down his pants, grabbed her legs, and flipped her to her back.
She screamed and fought and scratched him. Her shrieks were absorbed by the foliage. No one heard her agony as he violently raped her.
He finished, stood, and pulled up his pants. “You tell anyone and I will kill you, witch!”
“You are cursed forever William Martin!” she screamed at him as he nearly ran down the hill. “You and your entire family line will pay for your actions and your lies.”
Her words terrified him. He did not know what he was going to do. His obsession had doomed him.
Clara sat on the rock naked and pulled her knees to her chest sobbing. She cried for over an hour. Her body was violated. She was bloodied and bruised all over. All she could do was again soak in the water to wash away his seed, but her pain and shame would not flow down the creek with the water.
She soaked and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was raw but still could not remove the perceived stain on her body, on her soul. She dressed and returned to her shed sobbing most of the way. Her pain and distress turned to anger.
William’s uneasiness grew. The guilt he felt led him to the log church on the far side of town. He entered and fell to his knees in the front hand-hewn pew.
“Lord, please forgive me. She bewitched me. It was not my fault. Her wickedness made me do it. Her curse cannot stand. Please don’t let it overcome me!” he begged and prayed. Sweat and tears rolled down his cheeks.
Parson Benton entered and overheard his conversation with God. “William, you are distressed. What is the problem my son?”
“Clara, the witch, put a curse on me! She made me participate in an amorous congress with her. I could not help myself. I am certain that she will tell the good people of this town what happened. My wife will despise me and the people will brand me as an adulterer. What can I do?” he cried.
The parson thought for a few minutes, stunned by the news this devout man just divulged to him.
Though he had been at this church for only a year, rumors of Clara’s witchcraft had been pervasive. She had never stepped foot into the church and when invited by him to join the congregation, her exact words were “I worship my own god.”
“She must be punished. Clara has been possessed by the devil!”
The parson grabbed William by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “Buck up man! We have God’s work to do!”
They strutted down the muddy trail to the far side of town, gathering the residents to join them. By the time the throng reached the edge of town, Parson Benton had animated the crowd with his rhetoric. The mob reached Clara’s shack shouting, “Burn the witch! Burn her to purify this town. She is the spawn of the devil! Burn her! Burn her!”
Clara heard them coming. She stood defiantly in front of her meager home. Her anger rose and overcame the trauma of being spoiled by the rapist. She had been the one violated. She did nothing to provoke the attack that William committed. It was all him.
“I did nothing!” she screamed at the crowd. “This man stalked me like a deer and attacked me. He defiled me! He’s the one that should be punished and he will be!”
The town’s people surrounded her chanting, “Burn the witch!” while getting closer and closer to her.
“Who proclaims this woman, Clara Johnson, to be a witch?!” the parson asked the crowd.
“We do! Burn the witch!” shouted the flock in unison.
A fire was burning with the kettle over it cooking her supper. Next to it was the iron poker. One of the men stuck it into the fire.
Unnoticed, Martha Martin grabbed the large knife lying on a shelf.
The parson reached for Clara’s throat and grabbed the smock. With a single stroke, he tore it completely from her body. She stood nude in front of the mob completely unashamed.
Two of the women grabbed her arms and spun her around. The parson took her gown and tied her arms behind her back. He turned her again to face the throng.
“Having been proven a witch by the vote of these fine parishioners, you are to be put to death by fire!” the parson proclaimed.
“I am not a witch!” Clara screamed. “But I will become one and punish all that are convicting me. Your lives will be filled with horror and misery. Especially you, William Martin. You raped me and lied. You have brought this hate upon me. So you shall sow pestilence upon yourself and your family. Do to me as you wish but suffer the maladies that are coming. The punishment will be on your souls, not mine!”
The parson walked slowly over to the fire and picked up the white poker. He carried it to Clara and held it in front of her. “This will mark you as the witch you are!”
With it, he slowly branded a W between her breasts.
Her screams could be heard through the hollows. The horde that convicted her cringed at the agony Clara suffered. Yet she remained conscious. Her stares of hate penetrated the eyes of each of those before her. Pain racked her body.
She was dragged into the smokehouse and forced into the single chair in the small enclosure. Her hands were tied to the chair with the remainder of her thin dress. Several of the worshippers piled wood around her and backed out of the shack.
“Because you are the injured party William, you must set the witch ablaze.”
The parson handed William a flaming knot from the fire. He took it and held it high in front of the crowd. “I am ridding the earth of this menace. May God have mercy on her soul and mine!”
He set the wood around her on fire. As the flames grew higher, he backed out of the shack and shut the makeshift door.
Clara remained silent for only a moment. The fire and smoke grew and spread onto the walls of the shed. She choked on the toxic fumes and screamed her last words. “You are all guilty and will be punished! William Martin, you are to be first. Your descendants shall all suffer. I am now Luci.”
The entire smokehouse exploded into flames.
Luci died.
William turned to address the fine citizens of the settlement. Martha walked up and without a word, drove the knife through his heart. She knew that he lied and was guilty of rape and now murder. Death was his punishment and he would burn in hell.
The fire continued to burn until late that night.
The sextant now had two bodies to bury in the already crowded cemetery, but the parson refused to allow her charred remains to be interred there. She was buried on the spot where she was burned. Rocks were piled on her grave to prevent her body or soul from escaping. The spot was now unhallowed earth.
Martha was hanged the next day by the fine people of the church for killing her husband and buried next to him.
The people of the town washed their hands of the Martin family. Her three sons were banished as the spawn of a rapist and a murderer and would have to fare for themselves. John, the oldest at fourteen, moved the brothers to a town westward and across the state where the news of the incident had not yet arrived.
Torrential storms raged upriver for two weeks and without warning, flash flooding sent a wall of water twenty feet high down the Ohio River in the middle of the night. The low-lying town and the inhabitants that participated in the burning were washed down the river never to be found. Few residents were spared, among them were Parson Benton’s two sons, Matthew and Luke.
The cemetery was scoured by the rushing water and all markers were destroyed. Because the graves of loved ones could not be found, the cemetery was abandoned and a new one was consecrated.
Those innocents that were spared rebuilt the town on higher ground.
A woman’s laugh could occasionally be heard in the woods and hollows of Lapland. Luci could sometimes be seen as an apparition floating above the spot where she was murdered and buried.
“Homicide, Thompson,” the detective answered the phone and listened to the voice on the other end of the line.
“Sure, we’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” She hung up the phone and took a deep breath.
“OK, Pauly, we’ve got a body, of all places, down at the old Pioneer and Military Memorial Park cemetery at Fifteenth Avenue and Jefferson.” She stood, retrieved her pistol from her desk drawer, and clipped it to her belt.
“Shit Ginni, do you know how fucking hot it is? It has to be at least a hundred and five and it’s only eight-forty-five in the morning. We’re going sweat our asses off out there.”
“Paul, you’d bitch if you were hung with a new rope. Now get your ass in gear. You’ve lived in Phoenix all of your life. Haven’t you adapted to the summers here yet?”
“Screw you!” He grabbed his gun. “Let’s go.”
Detectives Virginia Thompson and Paul Lindstrom got in their police sedan and drove westward down Washington Street to Fifteenth Avenue and turned south to Jefferson. Five patrol cars sat along the street with red and blue lights flashing. They exited the car and entered the cemetery, ducked under the crime tape, and walked to the area where two uniformed officers stood beside the body. The rest were searching the cemetery for any clues.
Flies were already buzzing their dirge and nearly covered the exposed nude body of a young woman. Her face was beaten so badly that she was almost unrecognizable as human.
Thompson asked the Lieutenant in charge for information.
“She was found about eight-thirty this morning and we got on scene ten minutes later. The area was taped off and we called the coroner and you guys. We found no clues, only her torn clothes scattered around the corpse. The ground is so hard and dry that there were no tracks or footprints. We’ve not touched anything. The coroner should be here in a few.”
Thompson put on her rubber gloves and went to the clothes. Ginni did a visual inspection of the body. The only markings on the body except for the blood and bruising was a small tattoo of a wilted rose on the left side of her neck.
She picked up a pair of torn panties and bagged them. A pair of worn out, cheap tennis shoes were collected next. A torn t-shirt and cut-off jeans lay together and searched. The pockets of the jeans held two one-dollar bills, thirty-two cents in coins, a Central Arizona Shelter Services ID card, and a tattered business card. The card had only a name and phone number. She read the information on it and handed it to her partner. All were bagged and tagged.
“Damn Lindstrom, do you remember this guy? We investigated him when he reported his wife missing about seven or eight years ago. He still calls me every couple of months to see if anything has turned up about her.”
“Yeah, I remember him. He’s been a pain in the ass for years. We’ll have to have a talk with him.”
She read the name on the ID. “Her name is Juanita Gomez. She’s nineteen years old and homeless.”
Just then, the coroner arrived. “Hello all. What have we got here?” He looked at the young woman’s body and remarked, “Looks like this poor girl had a bad night.”
After a quick ten-minute examination, he reported, “She’s been dead about six hours. It’s hard to tell because of the heat. It appears that she’s been raped or at least had very hard sex. Lots of bruising. Then beaten to death. I’ll be able to tell more during the autopsy. That won’t be for a couple of days. The lab is backlogged due to all the heat related deaths.”
“Thanks Doc. Please get the report to us as soon as you can. We have to see if we can get more info on her from CASS. We’ll need to take the ID and the card for the interviews. We’ll log them into evidence when we get back to the office.”
The coroner took the ID from Thompson and wrote down the information and handed it back. At least he had a name rather than a Jane Doe to add to the toe tag.
“Come on Paul. Let’s go to CASS. It’s right down the street.”
He whispered under his breath, “I hate that fucking place. Nothin’ but drug addicts and bums.”
“Paul, you are such an asshole at times. Lighten up. You know that many are affected by mental health issues, addiction, or some financial or other problems.”
“Why should I? You know all those SOBs are just a bunch of lazy bastards looking for a handout. This murdered woman is how most end up. I’m tired of my tax dollars paying for their way of life if you want to call it life. They’re found living in cardboard boxes under bridges and survive by panhandling, stealing, prostitution, or sucking Social Security dry. Hell, there will be nothing left for us when we retire. Fuck them all!”
Thompson just shook her head. She’d been putting up with his attitude for almost four years. It was really growing old. Yet as partners together, they had a ninety percent clearing rate, better than any other team in the Homicide Department.
Time to get to work.
They drove to CASS, parked in a no-parking zone, and walked to the main office through the crowd of homeless.
Some smartass in the group yelled, “Look out people, Po-Po is here.”
Both ignored the comment and walked into the main office. They went to the front of the line, identified themselves, showed their badges, and asked to talk to a supervisor.
About five minutes later, an older lady came to see them. “Hi Detectives, I’m Mary Conner, housing supervisor. How can I help you?”
Thompson handed her the plastic bag with Janita’s ID and said. “What can you tell us about this young lady?”
“Is she in trouble?”
“She was found murdered this morning.” Lindstrom blurted out.
Thompson gave him a dirty look.
The supervisor did not look shocked. “Please come to my office. We’ll look up the information we have on her.”
The detectives followed her to the office and she pointed to two chairs. “Please have a seat while I check out the info.”
Ms. Conner tapped a few keys on the keyboard, waited about thirty seconds, tapped a few more keys entering Juanita’s name, waited again, then remarked, “Sorry this is taking so long. We have a slow system here. It may be a few more minutes for her information to show up.”
The wait was almost three minutes.
“Ms. Conner, is there any other information that you can give us?”
She looked at Thompson and shook her head. “We get so many women in here that we have no time to learn anything about them other than what they put on the application. And most of that is lies. Most are running from something or some bod… ahh, there it is. Shall I print it for you?”
“Please,” Thompson replied.
The printer came to life, sputtered, seemed to die, then almost screamed as it churned out a single page in a mere minute. It was so loud that conversation was impossible.
Mary Conner handed the sheet of paper to Detective Thompson. “This is all the information that we have on her. I hope it helps. It may or may not be accurate. This is what we are told by the applicants and any other information from our medical or jobs department.”
Thompson briefly scanned the page. Name, sex, age, birthdate, and place of birth were all that was listed. No next of kin or contact information were included.
“Thank you Ms. Conner. We will take it from here. Sorry to reveal her passing so brutally,” Thompson gave Lindstrom another dirty look.
The detectives rose together and started to leave.
“Will you please send notification of her death to the administrative office? Otherwise she’ll be kept on the rolls and keep some other woman from getting a bed when her name rolls around.”
“Sure Ms. Conner. And if you hear any other information, please keep us informed.” Thompson handed her a business card.
“Absolutely.”
The two walked out of the building and were immediately struck by the heat and the fact they were being scrutinized by all that waited in line to check in and apply for benefits.
They reached the sedan, got in, started the car and the air conditioner. Both rolled down the windows while waiting for the air to cool.
A scrawny old woman walked up to Lindstrom’s window and said, “Look for an old red pickup truck.”
“Did you see anything? What do you know?” Lindstrom spoke to her back as she turned and disappeared into the mass that was hurrying toward the chow hall on the east side of the campus.
“Hang on a minute!” he yelled at her.
“That was strange Ginni. You want me to see if I can catch her?”
“No, but it may be a clue or she could just be another nut job. Remember what she looks like. We may have to find her later. You ready to go see Martin?”
“Sure, why not.”
Thompson drove carefully not to run over anyone. Pedestrians were everywhere along the way, dashing into the street, not looking for oncoming vehicles. Some were sober, some not.
It was a five-minute drive to Robert Martin’s house, the name on the card. They pulled up in front of his house.
“This is new,” Thompson said of the water station next to the wrought iron gate entering the property. The entire fence was wrought iron matching the time when the house was initially built. They were in the historic section of downtown Phoenix.
“Want a bottle?”
“Sure.”
Thompson grabbed two bottles of ice-cold water from the cooler, handed one to Paul, and chugged the one in her hand. “Damn that’s good!” She tossed the empty into the trash can next to the cooler and started to reach for another but resisted knowing she would soon have to find a restroom.
They walked up the steps to the front door, rang the bell, and waited. Lindstrom being the impatient one, rang it again and again. Still no answer.
“Let’s go around to the back.” Together they followed the red stone pavers to the back gate. It too was wrought iron but opened through an eight-foot tall block wall painted desert rose to match the stucco on the house. Ivy was starting to grow halfway up the enclosure.
Martin could be seen pushing a wheelbarrow from the far corner of the lot to a long narrow planter near the center of the backyard.
“Mr. Martin!” Ginni yelled to get his attention just as the odor hit her. She nearly gagged.
He looked up, recognized the detectives, and nearly spilled the contents of the cart. Martin jogged over to the gate.
“Come in, do you have news!” he asked excitedly nearly out of breath.
“Mr. Martin, what is that smell?” Thompson asked squinching her nose.
“It’s what’s left of thirty-five tons of composted manure that I’m using to fill the planters.” He pointed to the three two and a half foot deep by four foot wide and thirty feet long brick planters in the center of the back yard. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Don’t your neighbors complain?”
“No. I went to each and told them what I was doing. All agreed but wanted fresh veggies when they ripen. I told them no problem but it will be next spring before that happens. There have been no complaints. When you’re here for a few minutes, you become accustomed to the smell.”
“Again, do you have news of Linda?”
“I’m afraid not Mr. Martin, but we have some questions for you,” Thompson said.
“Please come over and sit at the table. Would you like something to drink?” he said dejectedly.
“No thank you, sir. We did take a couple of waters from the cooler out front. Hope that’s OK,” Lindstrom said as he sat at the patio table.
“That’s what they’re for.”
Thompson handed Martin the plastic bag containing the CASS ID card. “Do you know this woman?”
“Is she in trouble?”
“You might call it that. She found this morning, raped and murdered,” Ginni informed him.
Robert was not shocked. This happened far too often in this part of town.
Martin examined the photo on the ID and remarked, “She looks familiar. She may have walked by here in the evening when I sat on the porch swing, but I don’t know who she is. To my knowledge, she hasn’t stayed here before. Why did you think I’d know her?”
“Because of this.” Thompson handed him the baggie containing his worn business card.
Martin examined the card through the plastic. “She could have gotten that on the table by the shower. I have a bunch of them next to the House Rules posted there. Rule number thirteen, “take one.” Or someone could have given it to her.”
“I thought you were taking care of male veterans. Wasn’t that the main focus of your endeavors here?” Lindstrom asked.
“That was my original intent. In the first two weeks, there were four fights where I had to call the police, not to mention the number of arguments. Testosterone dripped off the walls. I didn’t want to, but the situation got so untenable that I couldn’t handle it, so I stopped male veterans from staying here. I wanted to help the homeless so I switched over to letting women stay here. It’s been two months now, so far, so good. No fights or arguments.”
“You’re lucky Mr. Martin. We hear of at least ten complaints a week from CASS.”
“I think the women that stay here want some peace in their lives and won’t jeopardize the chance to remain over petty grievances. I’ve spoken to several of them and that’s the impression I got from them. The men just didn’t care. When I’m done, this will be a paradise for all that stay here.”
“If you let me take a copy of the ID, I’ll ask the women that come here if they know anything about her, then I’ll let you know. I doubt if any of them will talk to you guys. Most do not like police or even talk to them.”
“Sure. That sounds good.”
Martin took the ID and returned in a few minutes with an enlarged copy, “If there’s anything else that I can do, please let me know.” He handed the baggie back to Detective Thompson.
Both stood and shook hands with Martin. Thompson said, “Thank you for your time Mr. Martin. We’re sorry we didn’t have any news on your wife and we will let you know if we hear anything. Please let us know if you find out anything about Juanita.”
“I certainly will. You guys be safe!”
The detectives left as they came. Robert washed his hands and went inside the house to his office.