MORAL DILEMMA, REID JACKSON [best big ereader .txt] 📗

MORAL DILEMMA


By


REID JACKSON


PROLOGUE
Jack had taken a job as an associate detective with a reputable detective agency in San Francisco. After his injuries while on a secret mission for the Navy he quit and took his disability pension. He wouldn’t be content with a desk job.

During one of his assignments he became involved in a MORAL DILEMMA. This is that story.


CH. 1 THE UNHOLY PRIEST
He stalked the lady for two weeks. He was meticulous and methodical; and she was married without children. She resembled his whoring mother who had shamed and emasculated him. The world would be rid of such vermin. It would be the fourth victim in the cleansing. Today would be the climax of his psychotic thoughts.
She was structured and her activity was predictable. Her husband would be absent tonight; he was in a business meeting in Phoenix. The house was compromised with a bug he installed in their living room. The killer gathered information to fulfill the plan and his quest. He took the time and patience to do his victim. He had placed the bug in the house earlier; gathering his needed information. It was dusk and he was ready.
It was a quiet estate situated on five lovely acres in San Francisco; the house was magnificently built in the colonial style with rock facade and landscaping accentuating the peaceful tranquility. The evening was perfect as he drove up the driveway to fulfill his destiny. The excitement was building as the distance to the house was diminishing. He was dressed as a priest because the mission was blessed. He rang the door bell.
“Yes.” The intercom spoke.
“Is this Mrs. Templer?”
“Yes, how may I help you?” The intercom seemed impatient.
“Mrs. Clarisse Bergman sent me to visit you.”
“Oh, Clarisse sent you, certainly come in.” The door answered with a joyful buzz.
The deceitful predator entered. He stood before Mrs. Templar looking saintly with his gentle smile and crisp uniform of a priest. She smiled back not realizing she had just let a monster into her home. The name Clarisse was extracted from the bug and expedited his entrance. “Clarisse asked that I visit you.”
“For what reason?” Robin had no idea why Clarisse sent a priest.
“She wanted you to have a gift.”
“That dear girl, what gift would she give me?”
“Heaven or hell!”
Robin froze at the remark and felt a deadly chill surge through her body. A sensation that felt like a dark covering enveloped her. Something is terribly wrong here and I feel the evil. I need to do something, but what?
She knew she had to escape. “Can I get you something to drink?”
He grinned, his eyes signaling her last moments. Robin sprang for the door but then two hands gripped her neck jerking her backwards while closing her air passageway. She kicked and squirmed but it was useless as her life drained from his deadly grip. I’m going to die, oh God, help me, I’m not alone, what is this feeling that now holds me? I see a glow that is soft and warm, that comforts me. I must go to that warmth that fills my heart. I see a vague figure standing with open arms, he’s majestic with love surrounding me, caressing me. Who is this creature waiting for me? Could it be?
She had a pleasant smile; her face seemed to glow as he stared. He cut off her wedding finger then left a message on her forehead in virulent red lipstick. WHORING BITCH!



The killer left the house as a car was coming in the driveway; a man exited the car and approached the priest.
“Hello father.”
“Good evening.”
“Is Mrs. Hardesty home?”
“Yes, can I be of help?”
The man was looking into his soul as if he knew that he had just killed. “Would you give her this?” He was carrying a small portable cooler. He withdrew a .22 Ruger six shot and aimed it at the killer priest.
“You’ve performed your last rites”
The fake priest jerked at the sight of the pistol. “Wha---“`Pop` The bullet left a telltale hole in the middle of the forehead. The startled priest fell; he had strangled his last victim.




Detective Sampson was talking with the CSI investigator.
“This is weird.”
“No shit.” The CSI investigator agreed.
“The Unholy Priest committing his fourth killing then being shot as he was leaving.”The police were actively hunting for The Unholy Priest and the community had been alerted.
“Damnest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Detective Sampson was stymied at the double killing as he ran his hand through his curly black locks. “This killer had to know when, where, and the exact time of the serial killers attack on Mrs. Templar.”
“It looks that way” Replied the CSI investigator.
“Whoever shot the Unholy Priest knew him and shot him in the driveway. He must have known that Mrs. Hardesty had already been strangled. He shot him as he was leaving. It has the look of a vigilante killing. I’m going to run a check of serial killers on our database and find out if this mo has been used before.”

The scene was thoroughly cataloged and the bodies removed. Detective Sampson ran a check on all serial killers and found two other serial killers had been killed with an ice bullet. His theory was pointing to a vigilante killer. These other killings took place in Los Angeles and Tucson.

Someone is killing serial killers


CH. 2 FAST JACK
He was moving along smoothly as the wheels clicked over the separations in the sidewalk- tic-tic-tic. Jack was a striking figure in his wheelchair. A fit specimen in a
Wheelchair with a short crew cut dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt with odd stainless steel caps just below his knees adding to his total look of curiosity. His lower legs had been shot off. And the caps caught the attention of passerby’s. His upper body was muscular with his arms betraying his strength. He had a square jaw and was an attractive man topped with pure blonde hair. Judging from his arm length he would be six feet two and weigh two hundred and twenty pounds if he still had all of his legs. The smell of trash wafted casually stinging his olfactory senses. The shadows seized the deserted street in darker contrast to the moonlit night.

The two gang members had been watching Jack for a few minutes from the dark alley smoking their noxious weed, their exhaled smoke drifting out into the moon light. They noticed he was dressed as if he might have a bit of cash. Both were dressed in ganger type outfits and had the usual tattoos denoting their gang affiliation. They wore oversized colorful pro football jackets with baggy jeans hanging low on their buttocks. Tattoos’ were on their hands and necks. This was going to be easy, they thought, as they walked up to Jack. They crossed the street passing a car without tires sitting on the pavement, stripped of anything that made it a car. The wheels looked naked without the tires with the rims sitting on the pavement.
“Hey man, you get around in dat wheelchair man.”
Jack didn’t respond but just kept tic-tic-tic. “Hey man, I’s yakin at ya.”
“Fuck off, punks.” Snapped Jack”
The two gangers looked at each other and grinned. “Hey bro we need some cash.”
Jack stopped his wheelchair and looked up at the two punks, “You boys better get home before you get hurt.”His eyes revealed his steady look of defiance.
“Youse a smart mouth muther for a dickhead.”

Then the larger of the two reached out to grab Jack with his left hand and his right hand produced a six inch switchblade. Jack was faster than Muhammad Ali thrusting a jab. He caught the punk’s left hand and twisted it back and down with his strength and rammed his fist into the punk’s face knocking him flat on his ass. The other Punk froze for a second at the speed of this homey in the wheelchair.
He then reached for his blade, but as he did Jack threw a three point Ninja star and stuck him in the forehead. The other one got off the ground bleeding from the mouth. The ganger pulled a gun from his hip, as his hand was swinging to get a shot, Jack thumped his elbow against his side, and a wrist gun strapped to his forearm snapped into Jack`s hand--- `kapow`. The wrist gun instantly stopped the assailant’s life forces and he dropped lifeless to the ground.

The quiet was deafening as Jack stared at the two on the ground. The blood was coloring the black pavement, a black pool of life exiting each man’s life.