,

Terror in Richmond: I Survived An Encounter With The Briley Brothers

The late 1970’s brought fear into the city of Richmond, Virginia. Not knowing who would be the next victim in the Briley brothers’ killing spree caused many to stay inside their homes, hiding from a pair of murderers who randomly assassinated people for fun. The two brothers, James (below right) and Linwood (below left), were responsible for nearly a dozen vicious homicides during a seven month period.

Linwood was the first of the brothers to kill. In 1971, while still a juvenile, he sat at his bedroom window with a rifle and took aim at his elderly neighbor through her kitchen window as she went about her daily routine. He shot and killed her. Later, he told police that she had heart trouble and was going to die soon anyway. Linwood served only one year in a juvenile facility for the murder of his neighbor.

James, in the meantime, was following in his brother’s footsteps. He, too, was sent to a juvenile facility for shooting at police officers during a pursuit.

The Briley Brothers had a younger brother, Anthony, who joined his older siblings in their rampage, along with a friend, Duncan Meekins. Meekins would later testify against the Brileys.

These four killers murdered their victims in unimaginable ways—they; burned a couple, used a cinder-block to crush a man’s skull, used a baseball bat to beat a man to death, violently raped a woman before ending her life, used scissors, a bat, several knives, and a meat fork to kill another man, killed a 5-year-old boy in front of his parents before shooting them to death. And the list goes on.

The Briley’s victims:

  • William and Virginia Butcher – tied up and left to burn to death after the Brileys robbed them and set their home on fire. These are the only two victims to have survived a murder attempt by the Briley Brothers.
  • Michael McDuffie – assaulted and shot dead before being robbed of his possessions.
  • Mary Gowen – violently raped and murdered.
  • Christopher Phillips – dragged into a back yard by the three brothers and pinned to the ground while Linwood crushed his skull with a cinderblock.
  • John Gallaher – Gallaher stepped outside a nightclub where his band was performing and was kidnapped by the Briley Brothers. The men placed Gallaher into the trunk of his own car and then drove to a location near the James River where Linwood Briley shot Gallaher in the head at point blank range. Linwood then dumped the body into the river. The kidnapping was a random act. Gallaher just happened to step outside into the paths of the passing brothers.
  • Mary Wilfong – beaten to death with a baseball bat by Linwood.
  • Blanche Page and Charles Garner – Page was beaten to death. Garner was assaulted with many weapons including a baseball bat, scissors, several knives, and a meat fork. The scissors and fork were left embedded in Garner’s back.
  • Harvery Wilkerson, his wife, Judy Barton (she was five months pregnant), and their five-year-old son – Wilkerson and Barton were bound and gagged. Judy Barton was sexually assaulted by Linwood and Meekins. Meekins then shot Wilkerson in the head while James shot Barton and the five-year-old boy.

James and Linwood were sentenced to death for their crimes, and later masterminded the largest escape in history—5 inmates—from death row. They have since been executed.

Needless to say, to survive an encounter with the Briley brothers would be a miracle. However, today’s guest on The Graveyard Shift did just that. He survived a confrontation with Virginia’s most evil killers. To protect his identity we’ll refer to him as “KW.” Here’s his story.

“Lee, I just read your incredible description of the Brileys,’ the escape, and the executions.

In 1979 I was working for the VA Medical Center Richmond as a Pulmonary Biochemical Research Technician. Our job was to anesthetize dogs, and recreate an old veteran vomiting and aspirating, and to develop some timeline when the membranes of the alveoli broke and flooded the lungs with blood, lymph and vomitus.

Unfortunately, I was also working on a serious drug habit. Cocaine and sedatives combined with liquor, pot, stupidity and testosterone are more powerful than Long Island Ice Tea. Trust me.

I was apprehended by VA Security and Chesterfield County Police with 20cc’s of Phenobarbital, 10 Placidyl capsules and a bunch of the VA’s Insulin Syringes. Needless to say, I’ve never been rehired at the VA. I was hired at a glue factory on the Southside of Richmond. We made the resin and polymer adhesive that sealed cigarette packs and cartons for Phillip Morris.

The plant I worked at was two blocks from the Log Cabin Dance hall where the Briley’s abducted Johnny G, who was such a favorite DJ of mine that his death affected me like having lost a family member. “Johnny G from Tennessee, WXGI ,Richmond.”

My best friend in that plant was a guy about my age who had spent most of his life incarcerated. Everybody in the “Glue Pot” had done time for various misunderstandings with local law enforcement.

My “Friend,” I am sure had spent time at Beaumont Youth Correctional Center with one or more of the Briley’s. His most recent bit was served at Powhatan Correctional Center. He did 3 years for assisting in the armed robbery of a grocery store. I know that he was the one who conspired with Linwood and James to rob the apartment that was occupied by 5 adults and one child. I went there with the promise of Preludin, or “Bam” on the street, and reefer with 151 rum.

His girlfriend was the dealer. Big girl about a cool 350. Went from Petite to Junior-Plenty overnight. I ran out of cigarettes which we bought at the plant every Thursday morning when a guy from Phillip Morris showed up with grocery bags full of untaxed Marlboro’s and Merits ($2.50 a carton).

As I approached the back door to the apartment, the boys (Briley’s) were coming in with the most bizarre disguise I had ever seen. They had taken 1/2 inch white adhesive tape and marked their faces like Indians wearing warpaint. It was so striking and scary that at first, I didn’t see the pistol grip 12 gauge that Linwood was carrying. I soon took care to keep an eye on it. James and either Anthony or Meekins had two .38 revolvers pointed at my face and chest. Linwood had the 12 at the back of my head.

I assured them that I “wasn’t gonna act a fool.” They wanted me to get them into that apartment. I told them I would do anything they wanted , but there was a 4 year old in there. Ol’ Linny hit me in the back of the skull on that roundish bone at the base at the neck, and said, “F*** dat kid.”

They ordered everybody on the floor and Ol Big Girl couldn’t manage. She kept screaming, Oh Lawd Jesus!!!! I told her to tell him where the dope was. He had her baby by one arm up in the air with the 12 pointed at his chest. The Preludin was in a baggie rolled up like a tight joint and had transparent fishing line wrapped around and suspended in the toilet just under where the lid went on. If you didn’t look hard, you wouldn’t see it. The other two robbed everybody of cash and jewelry while Linny went to the bathroom for the pills.

They were in and out in 60 seconds. One of the other jackasses jumped up screaming at me, “Why didn’t you say something?” I replied, “What? Like goodbye?” “I ain’t dying for your no good ass.” I made sure that they understood that I saved their f***n’ lives by keeping the boys calm.

Two months later, I go out to get the morning paper, and all over the front page are Linwood and James. I stood in my boots, trembling. My body was actually convulsing when I realized who I had met. The angels were with me that night at Dove and Barton Streets. It was my last visit.

Everything I have told you is 100% true. I wouldn’t bother to write, if it weren’t. I am really taken by your work, and will follow from now on. Thank you for your contribution to society. Now, if we can only get the idiots off the phone or TV and have em’ read a book.

God bless you.

KW”

 

/by

Take Two Bodies and Call Me in the Morning: No, Medical Examiners Don’t Always Show Up at Murder Scenes

Writers need to know that procedures vary across the country. California, for example, is practically a world of its own and definitely beats a different drum than the rest of the country. I know because we lived there for well over a decade. I’m also quite familiar with how things go in other parts of the country, such as Virginia and North Carolina, Ohio, Wisconsin, and more.

No two states are identical—laws, rules, and regulations vary from place to place. In fact, procedures, guidelines, governance, and even local ordinances differ. No two law enforcement agencies operate in precisely the same manner. Their differences may be slight, to great.

The takeaway is this—if your story is set in an actual town, city, or county, please research those specific areas, especially if your goal is realism.

No, Medical Examiners Don’t Always Show Up at Murder Scenes

In some locations, typically rural, medical examiners may not respond to homicide scenes, or suspected homicide scenes. Instead, as is the case of many areas within in the Commonwealth of Virginia, EMS or a funeral home is responsible for transporting the body to a local hospital where a doctor or local M.E. examines the victim. I’ve investigated numerous homicides where the medical examiner opted to not respond to the scene of the crime.

If a suspicious death occurs during the nighttime hours, the exam may not occur until the next day when the M.E. returns to work after a good night’s sleep. And, in those rural locations, if an autopsy is to be performed it is not the local medical examiner who’d conduct it. Instead, the body is transported to a state morgue which could be located hours away.

In Virginia, there are only four state morgue locations/district offices (Manassas, Norfolk, Richmond, and Roanoke) where autopsies are conducted. Each of the district offices is staffed by forensic pathologists, investigators, and various morgue personnel.

Breaking Bread with Kay Scarpetta

The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner (OCME) is located in Richmond (the office where Patricia Cornwell’s fictional M.E., Kay Scarpetta, worked). This is also the M.E.’s office responsible for conducting the autopsies on the homicide cases I investigated. The real-life Kay Scarpetta was our M.E., and she is brilliant.

She, in fact, and one of her assistants, joined Denene and me at dinner at the Commonwealth Club in Richmond the night Denene received her PhD in pathology from Virginia Commonwealth University. Ironically, it was this very assistant to the real-life Kay Scarpetta who months later performed the autopsy on a bank robber who engaged me in a shootout. And it was she who, in explicit detail, informed me that four of the five rounds I’d fired into the center of the robber’s chest were fatal rounds. The fifth, she told me, entered the skull at an angle that would not have resulted in death.

There are several local M.E.’s in Virginia (somewhere around 160, or so) but they do not conduct autopsies. Their job is to assist the state M.E. by conducting field investigations, if they see fit to do so, but many do not. Mostly, they have a look at the bodies brought to  hospitals by EMS, sign death certificates, and determine whether or not the case should be referred to the state M.E.’s office for autopsy. They definitely do not go to all death scenes. Again, some do, but not all.

An example (one of many) was a drug-related execution in a county near where I worked as a city police detective. The sheriff of the county contacted my chief and requested that I assist in the investigation. Following the evidence, I and the sheriff’s investigators located the killers and after interrogating one of the suspects, he led me to the crime scene where we found the deceased victim. The suspects shot and killed the victim and then carried and dragged the body several yards, deep into a wooded area.

The men, after tiring of dragging the dead weight, left the body between a few small trees, in a thicket of briars and poison oak. Insects—beetles, flies, etc.—had begun their feasts. Scores of ants marched in lines across the body and in and out of the mouth, nose, and ears. A wasp crawled from inside the mouth and stood at the tip of the man’s tongue while stretching its wings. Hundreds of mosquitos swarmed around us and punctured our exposed flesh at will. They were relentless, and each of us had to return to our various cars to retrieve whatever protective clothing we could find.

The local medical examiner was spared of the mosquito bites and poison oak allergies because he chose to not respond to the scene. Instead, he settled for our statements, photos, and my video recording. He requested that the body be delivered to a local hospital. EMS placed the remains into a body body bag, sealed it, and then headed off to the morgue with a deputy sheriff tagging along for the ride to ensure the chain of custody was not broken.

Me standing on the left at a murder scene where a drug dealer was executed by rival gang members who then hid the body in a wooded area. I was asked to assist a sheriff’s office with the investigation. The medical examiner was called but elected to not go to the scene. The body and sheet used by the suspects to drag the victim were placed into a body bag and then transported to the morgue via EMS ambulance.

Pursuant to § 32.1-283 of the Code of Virginia, all of the following deaths are investigated by the OCME:

  • any death from trauma, injury, violence, or poisoning attributable to accident, suicide or homicide;
  • sudden deaths to persons in apparent good health or deaths unattended by a physician;
  • deaths of persons in jail, prison, or another correctional institution, or in police custody (this includes deaths from legal intervention);
  • deaths of persons receiving services in a state hospital or training center operated by the Department of Behavioral Health and Developmental Services;
  • the sudden death of any infant; and
  • any other suspicious, unusual, or unnatural death.

* Remember, “investigated” does not mean they have to go to the actual crime scene.

Again, me on the left as a sheriff’s office crime scene investigator points out the location of spent bullet casings, drag marks, and a blood trail. Pictured in the center are a county sheriff and prosecutor. The M.E. elected to not travel to the scene. As good luck would have it, we had the killers in custody at the conclusion of a nonstop, no sleep, 36-hour investigation.

After a lengthy interrogation, two of the four confessed to the murder. Of course, they each pointed to someone else as the shooter, and he, the actual shooter, placed the blame on his partners. But all four admitted to being present when the murder occurred and all four served time for the killing.

In the areas far outside the immediate area of Virginia’s four district offices of the chief medical examiner, where officials rely on local, part-time medical examiners, it is typically police detectives/officers who determine when a body can be removed from the scene. EMS, after checking for signs of life, stand by until the police instruct them to transport the body.

If the local M.E. shows up, and they’re almost always called, he/she will have a say in when the body is to be removed, but it’s rare that they do anything other than gather information for their notes and discuss possibilities and evidence with the police investigators.

Take Two Bodies and Call Me in the Morning!

In many cases, the local M.E.’s will simply instruct the calling detective to have EMS transport the body to the hospital morgue where they’ll take a look when they have a chance. They’ll sometimes ask to speak to the EMS person in charge of their crew to verify that the victim is indeed, well, dead.

The pay for local M.E’s in Virginia is a “whopping” $150 per case. Local M.E.s receive an extra $50 if they actually go to a crime scene. Again, many do not. Interestingly, funeral homes pay the local medical examiner $50 for each cremation he or she certifies.

Local medical examiners in Virginia also provide cremation authorizations for funeral homes and crematories. Cremation authorizations are required for cremation of anyone who died in Virginia. Funeral homes performing cremations must pay the local medical examiner $50 for each authorization.

The requirements to become a local M.E. in Virginia are:

  • A valid Virginia license as a doctor of medicine or osteopathy, Nurse Practitioner, or Physician Assistant
  • An appointment by Virginia’s chief medical examiner
  • A valid United States driver’s license

Once someone is appointed as a local medical examiner their term is for three years, beginning on October 1 of the year of appointment.

The four district offices employ full-time forensic pathologists who conduct all autopsies. Obviously, a physician’s assistant is not qualified to conduct an autopsy, nor are they trained as police/homicide investigators.

Remember, things are never the same/uniform across the country. It’s always best, if you’re going for 100% realism, to check with someone in the area where your story is set. The rules and regulations on one side of the country may not be the same on the other. And the middle of the country may also be totally different from the other localities.

For example, in one Ohio county, a coroner there mandated that autopsies be performed for all deaths that occurred during vehicle crashes. This is not so in other areas of the country, or even in other locations in Ohio. By the way, at the time, the Ohio coroner’s office received $1,500 per autopsy performed, with $750 of the sum going to the pathologist performing the exam.

/by

If My Handcuffs Could Talk: Marvin The Martian Loses Control and Elvis Returns … Sort of

As police officers, we’re often presented with the opportunity to meet various celebrities and other important people. Sometimes, we’re even placed in the unfortunate position of having to arrest a few of those VIP’s.

For example, I once served as training officer to a rookie who stopped a large, fancy tour bus for speeding, and the officer was quite surprised to see one of his favorite musicians behind the wheel—a very famous musician. The singer/guitarist was quick to announce his identity, as if the verbal identification had been necessary, hoping his fame would be enough to satisfy the appetite of the officer’s squalling radar unit.

The still wet-behind-the-ears officer, totally starstruck, tongue-tied, and rubber-kneed in the presence of the legend of stage and Radioland, immediately knew what he had to do. That’s right, my babbling trainee, with the speed and grace of a wild cheetah, was quick to snag the driver’s autograph, and then send the celebrity and his bus on their way to the next concert on the tour. And, when the officer returned to our patrol car he was grinning from ear to ear, like a mule eating briars.

The rookie officer shoved the signature-clad paper into my hands so I, too, could have a look at his prize. Sure enough, scrawled across the bottom of the traffic summons was the signature of one of the all-time greats of the music world. A golden voice and fancy guitar, though, do not qualify as exemptions to posted speed limits, especially when driving 82mph in a 45mph zone. I’d taught the young officer well.

Of course, I’ve had my own share of encounters with well-known celebrities and other people of fame, and such was the case of the man from Mars who insisted his use of a rusty ax to hack his sister-in-law to death was a direct order from his superiors on the red planet.

“You see,” he told me, “she wouldn’t allow the mother ship to return to earth. I had no choice. She’s evil, you know. Besides, she wouldn’t give me no money for cigarettes.”

Then there was the time I responded to the call of a man walking in the median between the north and southbound lanes of a major interstate highway. When I finally located the man, I pulled my patrol car off the roadway and approached on foot. He stood waiting for me in the center of the median strip, in the soft light of a near full moon. My gaze was immediately drawn to his sandal-clad feet and long, wavy brown hair fluttering gently in the night breeze. He held out his right hand for me to shake and, in an unusually soothing and calm voice, introduced himself as …

I must admit, I paused for a second before moving along to serious questions, like, “Do you have any identification?” Of course, when I did ask, he gave me that look. You know the one. The “Seriously, you need to see MY identification?” look. Well, as luck would have it, the guy wasn’t the Son of God after all. Instead, he was a slightly out of touch homeless man from Richmond who actually thought he was Jesus. And to think that I could have been the first in line to meet Him when He returned.

Of course, there was Elvis, the rock and roll legend I had to remove from an elderly lady’s refrigerator once or twice each month so she could watch TV without the interruption of endless choruses of “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Jailhouse Rock.” Not to mention how annoying it can be when Elvis slips in behind the cheesecake to steal our radio and TV signals.

 

Things could have been worse, I suppose. At least I never encountered one of today’s politicians. Although, I did stop the speeding car of a diplomat, and that was a can of worms I wished I’d not opened. And then there was the time I arrested a man who was wanted by the Secret Service and FBI for threatening to kill President Clinton.

If my handcuffs could talk … oh, the stories they could tell.

/by
,

Sleuthing the Clues in Staged Homicides: Top Tips From Dr. Katherine Ramsland

Below are excerpts From Katherine Ramsland’s Writers’ Police Academy Online presentation – “Sleuthing the Clues in Staged Homicides.”

Pettler’s Staging Typology

The Cleaner: This is more alteration than staging, because this person cleans the scene to remove evidence

The Concealer: Hides or destroys items related to the incident to prevent discovery

The Creator: Adds items to the scene, or rearranges for a specific effect

The Fabricator: Relies on ability to verbally deceive as a means of deflection

The Inflictor: Might include self in incident, with self-wounding, or might claim self-defense

The Planner: spends considerable time preparing the incident to appear as something else instead of reacting, post-incident.

*Laura Pettler, PhD, CSCSA (Certified Senior Crime Scene Analyst) is the owner of Carolina Forensics, vice president of the American Investigative Society of Cold Cases, and was co-founder/director of North Carolina Prosecutorial District 20-A’s 2006-2010 Crime Scene Reconstruction and Behavioral Analysis Program, its Cold Case Task Force, and its 2009 International Forensic Institute. Pettler is a scholar-practitioner focusing on cold case homicide, crime scene staging, intimate partner homicide, and crime reconstruction. ~ bio, Evidence Technology Magazine.

Tips from The Psychology of Death Investigations, by Katherine Ramsland

 

Tips for Investigators to Evaluate for Staging

  • Beware of personal assumptions, especially those that attract investigative shortcuts.
  • Remember that the majority of stagers (except for suicides) had a relationship with the decedent.
  • The relationship is most likely intimate, past or present.
  • Stagers often discover the body or report the person missing.
  • The reason a body discoverer is at the scene should be legitimate.
  • Stagers might inject themselves into an investigation to “be helpful.”
  • Stagers often “find” a suicide note or other evidence they want police to see.
  • 911 calls from stagers will have unique elements common to “guilty” vs. “innocent” callers.
  • Besides manipulating the scene, stagers will reinforce it with verbal manipulation.
  • Their efforts to deflect might include an explanation for the incident.
  • The staging will probably feature mistaken notions about how such incidents occur, such as suicide notes that have more non-genuine indicators than genuine.
  • Learn the items that characterize genuine notes, rather than make assumptions.
  • Look for items that copy media reports or narratives.
  • Look for scene behavior uncharacteristic of decedent.
  • If a suicide note mentions a close associate, consider them a person of interest.
  • Stagers are most likely to be male.
  • Staging a suicide most often involves firearms.
  • Suspicious indicators are weapons positioned too perfectly, or positions do not match where blood spatter or shell casings are found.
  • Staged scenes are most often in a place familiar to the decedent, such as their home.
  • Watch for unexpected behaviors during interviews.
  • Match narratives about the incident against evidence.
  • Develop competing hypothesis to help highlight issues of concern.

Resources:

Ellis, T. M. (2008, July 18). CSI-like suicide ruled in death of Red Lobster exec Thomas Hickman. Dallas Morning News.

Ferguson, C. E. (2014). Staged crime scenes: Literature and types. In W. Petherick (Ed.), Serial crime: Theoretical and Practical Issues in Behavioural Profiling, 3rd ed., (pp. 141-164). Boston, MA: Andersen.

Ferguson, C. E., & Petherick, W. (2016). Getting away with murder: An examination of detected homicides stages as suicides. Homicide Studies, 20(1), 3-24.

Geberth, V. (1996). The staged crime scene. Law and Order Magazine, 44(2), 45-49.

Geberth, V. Practical Homicide Investigation. CRC Press.

Geberth, V. Sex-related Homicide and Death Investigations. CRC Press.

Greenwood, E. (2016). Playing dead: A journey through the world of death fraud. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster.

Harpster, T., & Adams, S. (2016). Analyzing 911 homicide calls: Practical aspects and applications. Boca Raton, FL: CRC Press.

Harpster, T., Adams, S., & Jarvis, J. P. (2009). Analyzing 911 homicide calls for indicators of guilt or innocence: An exploratory analysis. Homicide Studies, 13(1), 69-93.

Pettler, L. (2016). Crime Scene Staging Dynamics in Homicide Cases. Boca Raton, FL: CRC Press.

Schlesinger, L., Gardenier, A., Jarvis, J., & Sheehan-Cook, J. (2014). Crime scene staging in homicide. Journal of Police and Criminal Psychology, 29(1), 44-51.

Katherine Ramsland teaches forensic psychology at DeSales University, where she is the Assistant Provost. She has appeared on more than 200 crime documentaries and magazine shows, is an executive producer of Murder House Flip, and has consulted for CSI, Bones, and The Alienist. The author of more than 1,000 articles and 68 books, including How to Catch a Killer, The Psychology of Death Investigations, and The Mind of a Murderer, she spent five years working with Dennis Rader on his autobiography, Confession of a Serial Killer: The Untold Story of Dennis Rader, The BTK Killer. Dr. Ramsland currently pens the “Shadow-boxing” blog at Psychology Today and teaches seminars to law enforcement.

/by

Officer Rudy Kramer and the Hackberry Tree

Officer Rudy Kramer drew his pistol, a nine-millimeter that, as always, was set to fire—a round in the chamber, fifteen in the magazine, and the safety off. Then he took a deep breath and a long hard swallow that sent his prominent Adam’s apple down and then back up.

His heart, thumping against the inside of his chest, was a metronome on steroids.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

There was no backup to call.

No snarling K-9 to send.

No tear gas.

No SWAT unit.

To make matters worse he couldn’t find his flashlight.

Like it or not, the time had come and there was no alternative.

He had to go it alone.

So Rudy, a highly-decorated veteran cop who was just shy of his fiftieth birthday, started the search slowly, carefully, and methodically, clearing each of the rooms precisely as he’d been taught in the academy.

Five down.

So far, so good.

Only two rooms remained, including that room.

The one where—

He heard a sound and stopped dead still, holding his breath.

A beat passed and he heard it again.

Clunk.

The noise came from down the hallway.

The kitchen.

His heart picked up the pace.

BumpBumpBumpBump

Clunk.

He aimed the barrel of his pistol down the dark corridor.

Watching.

Waiting.

Clunk. Clunk.

Ice cubes dropping into the plastic bin.

He exhaled, slowly.

His heart downshifted a gear.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

Next came a low hummm and a soft whirrrr.

The refrigerator’s compressor.

The kitchen would have to wait until after he checked the room where “IT” happened.

Unable to put it off any longer, Rudy turned and moved slowly across the hardwood toward the open door of “the” room.

With each step the old floorboards sounded off with a screechy creak.

A lone drop of sweat slalomed its way down his backbone until it dipped beneath the waistband of his favorite boxers, the red plaid pair he’d received as a birthday gift from his wife Ruth, the love of his life since they’d first met in high school.

He paused, cocking his head to one side, listening.

Adrenaline dialed his senses to hyper-alert.

He detected the individual scents of the dust motes that danced in the moonlight spilling through each windowpane.

He sensed his own blood streaming and spewing through even the tiniest vessels within his body.

His eardrums pounded inside his head, begging to hear the slightest of sounds, like those of those stinky dust particles as they spiraled and sailed their way to the oak flooring until they landed with the collective volley of hundreds of earsplitting thuds.

Still, in spite of the cacophony of “house” noises that assaulted his hearing, the absolute quiet inside the home was absolutely deafening, and quite maddening, to say the least.

And there was that constant hammering of the antique mantle clock. The battering and grindings of tiny gears and cogs and wheels as they worked against one another.

Tick … Tick … Tick …

Outside, a brutal December nor’easter pushed and pulled on the leafless, gangly limbs of the old Hackberry in the side yard.

The corner streetlamp backlit the tree’s gnarled appendages, sending its dark shadow in through the windows to wave and sway on the interior walls, including the one spattered with splotchy-red stains and, well, that other stuff. The stuff he didn’t want to think about.

The Hackberry’s tiniest branches and twigs scraped and scratched against the exterior of the house—dozens of skeletal fingers strumming a clapboard harp. The eerie display reminded Rudy of a maestro’s arms and hands as he brings his orchestra toward a final crescendo.

Same song and show every night.

Every single night of his miserable life.

Night after night after lonely night.

Whir, click, clunk, scrape, tick, scratch, and the bump of his grief-induced heartbeat.

The macabre concerto had repeated each night since his beautiful wife, a once loving woman whose mind gradually overflowed with depression and psychosis, used his service weapon, the same gun he held in his sweaty hand right now, to scatter the parts of her that once contained her memories, thoughts, silent prayers, and dreams of growing old together, all over the walls of that room.

He could no longer bear to watch the shadows dance.

The music had reached the coda.

It was time for the maestro’s finale.

The fat lady was singing her ass off.

He raised the gun and pressed the barrel against the roof of his mouth.

Whir, click, clunk, scrape, tick, bump, thud … BANG!

. . . . . . . . .

Tick … Tick … Tick …

/by