Cajun books by Lionel A. LaVergne
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	BEAST By Lionel La Vergne Chapter one   Three A.M. The time when the body and soul are at their lowest ebb. When armies attack, babies awake, crying, and the Beast feeds. The Beast looked down at his latest victim. He stood over the corpse, blood smeared on his face and dripping from his mouth, mixed with saliva and onto the torn body lying at his feet. The last shudder of his climax shook the Beast. For a few seconds, a deep feeling of lassitude overcame his senses. Shaking away the after effect, the Beast slowly walked away. Chapter two   Detective Joe Bihm walked into police headquarters on Reisner Street, making his way to his desk. He sat and opened the bag containing his usual healthful breakfast of doughnuts. As he munched on the sweet pastry he thought how good a cigarette would taste right then. Tree hugging left wing wackos, in cahoots with do gooder assholes, had taken away his right to pollute his own lungs. Sipping his Luke warm coffee and looking around his ‘office’, he saw he was the only officer in the room.   “Oh shit,” he thought. “Did I forget another damn meeting?” Searching the surface of his amazingly messy desk, he found nothing concerning a meeting today. No memo. No note. Rising, he walked to the back of the room and into the hall that led to the area usually used for briefings. Here, he and his fellow crusaders against crime, where brought up to date on current killings. Joe had been in homicide for seven years. Except for the last two years, he had the top clearance rate of any of the detectives in this assignment.     Thirteen years in the Houston Police Department, Joe had risen from patrolman to homicide detective quickly. Lately, Joe had lain awake reflecting on his life, his career, and his loss.     Walking into the large meeting room Joe spotted his partner, Max Boswell. Max stood with four or five other officers. As Joe neared the group, Max turned to him and began talking.   “He did it again.”   “Who did what?” Joe asked.   “The bastard we’ve been trying to nail, the one who eats parts of his victims, after he kills them, the Beast.” explained Billy.   “Oh, that guy.” Joe said, showing little interest.   Tom McLemore, who looked like he had just stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine, wrinkled his nose, as though he’d smelled something rotten. Turning to his partner, McLemore yanked his head to one side indicating, ‘follow me’. McLemore’s partner, a notorious ass kisser named Robert D. Towns III, hurried to catch up with his partner, hero, and object of near worship. The two when seen side- by-side, always prompted remarks such as ‘Mutt and Jeff’. McLemore was tall and slim, with a full head of perfectly coiffed hair. His dress was impeccable at all times. Suits hung on his body so perfectly, Joe had once remarked, that bastard, I bet that’ s really his skin. Towns was the exact opposite of the perfect McLemore. Town’s nose was large and had hair growing from it at different angles. His face was shaped like a bowling ball with wild unruly hair around the edges and he was already getting bald on top. His round figure caused him to look shorter, than his five foot seven inch height. He always looked rumpled. He could ruin the look of a thousand dollar hand made suit.     As the two walked out of the room, Bihm finished his doughnut and turned to his partner.   “What’s on for today?” he asked.   “I’m taking Jim here on a circuit.” Max answered.   “Yeah, you mean, we’re taking him?”   “No, I’m taking him, you’re going to see Captain Martin. Didn’t you see the note I left on your desk?”   “What note, hell, you know I can’t find shit on my desk.”   “It was taped to the top of your typewriter, didn’t you see it? Jesus Joe, you were supposed to be in his office, umm, ten minutes ago.” Bihm glanced down at his own watch. The time was eight twenty five.     “What does he want, do you know?” he asked Boswell.   “Probably gonna suspend your sorry ass. Move your tail, man. You’re skating on thin ice already. You don’t need anymore static from the brass.” Shrugging his wide shoulders Bihm shuffled off, making his way to Martin’s office. As he approached the desk, he eyed Captain Martin’s secretary, the beautiful, mocha colored heart breaker, Clarissa Dooms.     “Before I go in to hear I’m fired, would you marry me?” asked Joe.   “Just what I need, an unemployed burnt out ex policeman. Ask me again when you make Captain,” joked Clarissa.   “What’s on our esteemed leader’s mind this morning?” Smiling, Clarissa lowered her voice, bending close to Joe, “Did someone actually discover a mind in that hard, opinionated, one track skull? I don’t think so.   You better get your butt in there; he’s got some big dogs with him. Don’t want to keep the elite of Houston waiting.”   Bihm wondered what she meant.  What elite? Why would the captain want to see him, especially with some of Houston’s finer citizens there?  At least, he could be fairly certain, today wouldn’t be his last on the force.  The last two years he knew he had been sleepwalking his cases.  Expecting his next assignment would be ‘cold crimes’ or worse, he had waited for the axe to fall.     He knocked on the door and heard the command, “come.”   Opening the door, he surveyed the room.  Captain Martin was not behind his large expensive desk.  He was seated, along with two other people, in front of the desk.  Even before he recognized the Captain’s visitors he knew they were very important.  Captain Martin loved to sit in his large stuffed leather chair, lording over his minions.  Bihm stood and waited.  Seeing the Mayor’s wife, a lovely, slim lady, who looked twenty years younger than her age, and the Mayor Pro Tem, he knew this was important.  Jerri Deavers, Mayor Deaver’s wife of thirty-five years, was loved by most of Houston. A fine, cultivated lady, she constantly worked for the betterment of the citizenry.  Pictures in the local rag showed her nailing boards on houses.  And with sleeves rolled up, handing out meals in the missions.  She devoted a large portion of her time seeing that as many people as possible had the essentials of life.  The amazing part was, she really did these things, not just for photo-ops.  Her heart was as large as her husband’s belly. Mayor Deavers was in the first year of his second term.  His re-election, all the pundits said, was credited to his wife.   Jerri Deavers was a remarkable woman.  Bihm had almost made her acquaintance back when her husband was merely a rich landowner and contractor.  In Joe’s first year in homicide, he had been assigned to a murder in the third ward.  An unspoken understanding, even among black officers, you did not bust your butt over another killing among thieves, dopers, and other undesirable types.  Joe, too new, too young, and too on fire, had solved the murder.  He had worked on his own time scouring the dirty streets.  After closing that case he had received a phone call from Jerri Deavers.  The elderly lady who had been murdered had worked for Mrs. Deaver’s family for years. Jerri had loved the kind lady who had mostly raised her.   The Morton’s, Jerri's parents were jet setters, wealthy and prone to flying to Paris on a moments notice. They would hop into their private Lear and go to a favorite restaurant for a meal.  Mel Morton had been one of the wealthiest of many wealthy denizens living in the exclusive area with palatial palaces known as River Oaks.   The year Jerri graduated from University of Texas, in Austin, her parent’s had pleaded she attend some place more prestigious, but she wanted UT, her parents died in a crash. They had flown to one of their obscenely wealthy friends mansion on Jekyl Island, off the coast of Georgia.  Their plane made an unscheduled stop, into the Atlantic.  Many wondered why Jerri Morton was essentially dried eyed at their memorial.  No bodies were found, so expensive, empty coffins were placed in the family vault.   Bihm had answered the phone in his small house in the Alief area.   “Officer Joe Bihm?” a female voice had enquired   “Yes.” Joe answered.   "This is Jerri Deavers.”   “Yes ma’am.” Joe had replied, stunned.   “I want to personally thank you for your fine work.  Jenny Blouser was a dear lady.  A friend I loved very much.”   “Uh, yes, Ma’am.”   “If ever I can be of any assistance, please let me know.”   “Yes ma’am.”   Putting down the phone, Joe was numb.  His wife seeing his expression asked, “Was that the President, dear?”   “Better than that, Jerri Deavers.” answered Joe, wonder on his face.   “Jerri Deavers, Maxwell Deaver’s wife, the rich guy?  Bullshit, who was it, really?”   “I’m not kidding you, she thanked me for solving the murder of that old, black lady, Jenny Blouser.” Joe explained.   “Why, why should she care about an old black lady?” wondered Tilly, Joe’s wife.   “I don’t know, she said the lady was her friend and that she loved her.”   “Strange.  I know she’s always doing her charity work all over town, but does she really care for old black people that much?”     “I don’t know,” said the still stunned Joe.   Chapter three   Now Joe stood before his Captain, the Mayor’s wife and Councilman Joe Don Bensen, Mayor Pro Tem.  Bensen was a tall, thin, black man. He’d made the rise to his present place, as one of the leading black voices of Houston, by accusing everyone he knew of being biased against blacks.   His youth had been misspent getting into trouble and he had even served minor time.  Most of his youthful ‘indiscretions’ were misdemeanors. The felonies, he’d gotten away with.   Captain Martin finally rose and made hasty introductions.  Joe shook Bensen's limp, moist paw and Mrs. Deaver’s firm, scented, lovely hand. The Captain and Bensen quickly took their seats.  There were no other chairs in the room, except for the Captain’s throne.  Joe knew he’d be standing for this little talk.   Jerri stood near Joe. “I am so happy and privileged to finally meet you, Sergeant Bihm. ”This unusual lady once again took Joe aback.   “The privilege is entirely mine, ma’am,” he stammered.  Jerri threw back her head and laughed.     “I’d recognize that ma’am anywhere.  Please call me Jerri.”   “Yes ma’am, uh Jerri.’ Said Joe.  It distressed him to address the Mayor’s wife in that manner, especially in front of the two men who were staring at them with disbelief smeared all over their face. Both men thought, ‘Hell, she’s never told me to call her Jerri.’     Turning to Bensen, Jerri asked if he would be so kind as to see if he could find her a coke.  Fighting to keep resentment out of his voice and off his face, Bensen said “Yes Mrs. Deavers,” than walked out in search of a coke.   “Please Officer Bihm, sit here.” offered Jerri, pointing to the chair Bensen had vacated.   Puzzled, Bihm sat.  The three, Captain Martin looking slightly pissed, Joe at a complete loss, and Jerri Deavers completely relaxed, sat and looked at each other. It seemed no one wanted to be first to speak.  Joe cleared his throat.   Captain Martin rose, then walked to his desk.     “Sergeant Bihm, what are you working on currently?” he finally asked.   “The KwikStop shootings on Richmond.  A Pakistani was gunned down night before last.  He seemed to have put up something of a struggle, the register had been emptied, and the company’s district manager thinks some groceries were also taken. I also have a back log of other similar killings.”   “Groceries, what type of grocery? Asked the captain.   “Cat food, mainly.”   Shaking his head, the Captain looked at Jerri Deavers.  “As you can see, Mrs. Deavers, Sergeant Bihm is working some very important cases.” Glancing over at the Mayor’s wife, Bihm admired the way she looked.  Wearing a striking blue pantsuit with matching accessories, the lady was beautiful.  Her golden blonde hair was worn long, flowing around her shoulders.   “Really, Captain Martin.  I know any murder is important and I’m sure you have plenty of capable officers that can continue the follow up on these killings.”   “Yes, but it’s so important that the assigned officer stay with a case to it’s conclusion.  Each detective gets a ‘first feel’ for a case.  It’s difficult to pass that information to another investigator.”   “I see.” Turning to Joe Bihm, Mrs. Deavers asked, “Sergeant Bihm, do you suppose you could pass on the details of this case to another officer, if need be?” Bihm was completely mystified by this conversation.  What is taking place here, he wondered? Why was the wife of the Mayor, of the fourth largest city in the U.S., having this talk with his Captain? He sat and looked from the Captain to the Mayor’s wife, completely perplexed.   Martin seemed extremely agitated.  Joe could see he was working hard to keep himself in check.  The Captain was known for having a short fuse.  Not much aggravation was needed to cause Martin to explode.  Pity any one in his path when that happened.  Martin had been Captain of the Homicide Division for a little over a year. Martin had been hand picked by his predecessor, Assistant Chief Carl Dinsmore.  Dinsmore, sometimes known as Dumbsmore, had his sights set on Police Chief.  Dinsmore had risen through the ranks, riding the coattails of better police officers. He had been lucky, being at the right place at the right time.  Often, when a team apprehended a criminal, Dinsmore found a way to take the credit. His pick, Captain Martin, was an even poorer example of a good investigator.  Most of Martin’s investigations had been done on fellow officers, out of Internal Investigations Command.  Bihm knew all this and could not have cared less.  He had never cared for politics.  When he had been a good investigator, even his days on patrol, he had only cared about protecting the people in his patrol command.  In homicide, he had spent long hard hours improving his craft and solving cases.  Since his loss, he didn’t give a damn about anything much.  Now he sat, watching two of the powerful of Houston discussing him as though he wasn’t there.   “Well Sergeant Bihm, what do you say?” asked Jerri. Before Joe could answer, the door of the Captain’s office opened.  Bensen came in clutching a coke can in his long fingered right hand.  Handing the coke to Mrs. Deavers he looked at Joe Bihm.  Seeing a monkey pissing on his favorite chair at home would not have drawn a more disapproving look from the councilman.  Joe rose and walked to the chair Captain Martin had vacated. Jerri Deavers placed the coke on a table next to her chair.   “Mrs. Deavers, we really need to be going.  I’ve some important meetings this morning and I’m sure you have many things you need to be doing.”  Bensen said, using his put on ‘white voice’.  The man had been raised around Scott and Cullen Streets and had spoken ‘black’ all his life.  When he discovered his gimmick of railing against whitey, blaming white middle aged men for every thing wrong with his ‘people’s’ life, from lack of high income to hangnails and toe jam, he had begun using this particular form of speech.   He had watched carefully as Reverend Jessie Jackson made a good living, being a professional busy body.  He had emulated his hero and now found himself raised to Councilman, and somewhat of a leader in the black community.   Mrs. Deavers smiled at Bensen.  “Why, Joe Don, you go right ahead.  I’m sure I’m perfectly safe right here with all these large, handsome policemen, don’t you think?’   Bihm smiled inwardly.  Mrs. Deavers was using her Texas twang.  From time to time he had heard her do this.  She could, as Bensen did, turn her accent off and on, as it suited the situation.   “Mrs. Deavers, I promised the Mayor I would assist you in any way possible. While he was out of town, he wanted me to accompany you on any public business you wished to conduct.”   “That was mighty sweet of Maxwell, but I’m just a little past the age of needing a baby sitter.  If you need to go, scoot.  I’m certain the good Captain will see that I get back home safe and sound, won’t you Captain Martin?” The funny lady twanged.   “Certainly Mrs. Deavers, but don’t you think Councilman Bensen should sit in on this meeting.  After all, this concerns his constituency.” The Captain seemed quite flustered.  Bihm still had no idea why he had been included in these talks, but he was having the best time he’d had in the last two years.   “That’s up to Councilman Bensen, now isn’t it?” answered Jerri Deavers.  The twang was gone from her voice, replaced with the iron, no nonsense tone, she could use when needed.   “Sure, no problem, Mrs. Deavers.” The slimy councilman quickly interjected.      “Whatever I’ve got to do is certainly secondary to any thing you need.”   “Yes it is.” Agreed Mrs. Deavers. “Now Sergeant Bihm, you haven’t answered my question.”  Joe knew he was caught between a rock and a real hard place.   Deciding Jerri Deavers was the harder of the two, he agreed almost anybody could do what he was doing.   Turning to Captain Martin she targeted him in her sights.  Sweat promptly began forming on his brow.  Looking back and forth, as though at a tennis match, Bihm was using all the self-control he possessed. He knew if he laughed out loud as he wanted, he’d be in deep shit.  Mrs. Deavers had long been a hero of his.  The lady had shown herself to be a caring parson.  Despite her background and present station in life, she had always cared for everyone, regardless of their position.  Over the years, critics and doubters had been brought to their knees. The lady showed a consistent attitude, displaying her love for her fellow citizens, at every opportunity. “Okay then, lets stop the pussy footing around and get down to the reason for this meeting,” said Mrs. Deavers.   “Yes ma’am."  Joe said.  Sergeant Bihm, I want you to turn your present caseload over to another team. Starting immediately, you’re assigned to the Beast murders.   Report to Lieutenant Jackson, he’ll brief you and bring you up to date. As you probably know, Sergeant McLemore is in charge of that particular detail.  You will be working on his team,” said the Captain.  Each word seemed to pain him.  Getting a prostate exam would probably have been a more joyful experience for the Captain, than giving this assignment to Bihm.  Joe was surprised and appalled.  The last thing he wanted or needed, was a high profile case. He intended to stumble through the next eight years, or until he got fired.  Get twenty-one years in, retire and slowly vegetate to death was his only goal. Life for Joe had lost all meaning.  Nothing excited him; nothing moved him, except, well, except he thought, his perversion. After his loss Joe had tried booze.  Never having been much of a drinker, he found instead of losing himself in a bottle, he just lost his supper.  One night he wandered into what he thought was just a bar.  Instead he found himself in a titty bar on Westheimer.  Watching the extremely young dancers move their mostly nude bodies, in a rather lackadaisical fashion, he became fascinated.   He had known about titty bars, of course.  He had gone with fellow officers to a few of them, when one of the younger patrolmen had a bachelor party.  Before his loss, he had viewed the goings on as simply silly fun.  Now, he found himself aroused, in a sick way he had never felt before.  As he watched, sitting a few tables away from the stage, a young black haired dancer sat down next to him. After a few minutes of attempted talk, she asked him if he was a cop.  Lying, he denied he was.  Moving closer to him, she placed her hand on his crotch and began massaging him.  “Buy me a drink and get a table dance, we’ll have some fun.”  The evening ended with her astride his engorged member, wiggling until he climaxed. Snapping out of what seemed to be a sexually induced trance, he rushed to the men’s room and washed his hands and penis.  Leaving the restroom he wanted to avoid the dancer.  He had no problem.  She was already sitting at another table.  That night, he went over the incident in his mind.  Filled with disgust at the episode, he swore to never again go into one of those places.  Instead, he found himself frequenting dives all over Houston, from Telephone Road to Highway 6.  He became familiar with every bar in town that featured dancers.  Now and then he found no one would give him a ‘table dance’ of that type.  On Telephone Road, he met many Asian girls willing to go down on him, for a drink and fifty bucks.  Each time it happened, he remonstrated with himself, sick at his behavior. Each time he swore he’d never go back but each time he did.  Most of his forty five thousand dollar annual salary went toward taking care of his addiction.   No, he did not want a high profile case.  He wanted nothing that would call attention to his life.  He wanted to go on sleep walking till the end.   “Well, Sergeant.” he heard Captain Martin say. Coming out of his reverie, Joe looked from Mrs. Deavers to Captain Martin. “I don’t know what to say.  I’m pretty busy with my caseload; I’m very close to arresting one of the gunmen. It’s just a matter of finding him, I already know who he is.”     Captain Martin smiled.   Making a last ditch effort to change the lady’s mind, he said, “Now you see Mrs. Deavers, Sergeant Bihm is really to busy to take on any more responsibilities.   Sergeant McLemore is doing a fine job, I’m sure he’ll make an arrest before too long.”   Jerri Deavers stared at Captain Martin.  Ice seemed to form on his desk from those icy blue eyes. “Captain Martin, Sergeant Bihm, make it happen.  Let’s go Bensen.”