When the Dogwoods Bloom: (From the Chronicles of Noah Wolfe)

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER ONE

ONCE this was a place of great beauty. A place you could watch your children play. You could walk down the street and not fear that the next step you take could bring an end to your life. Now all that has changed, and the end is near. You ask the end of what? The end of human existence, as we once knew it.

You see the earth was so secure in itself that no one could think the unthinkable. No one was ready to experience the wrath of the things that had begun. The stupidity of many world leaders had made the unthinkable become reality. The purpose of life was no longer to nurture one another, but it became every man for himself. How did we get to such a plateau in our society? What happened to companionship? Where has the phrase love thy neighbor as thyself and the golden rule vanished?

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact answers to these questions. Maybe they don’t have answers, just more questions. Perhaps, the answers are the questions.

Society is defined as being an organized group of persons associated together for religious, benevolent, cultural, scientific, political, patriotic, or other purposes. The American society should be defined as a highly structured system of human organization for large-scale community living that normally furnishes protection, continuity, security, and a national identity. Well, one out of four isn’t bad. We are still called the United States of America.

Seems like a large burden to carry around, thinking about the world, asking tough questions that may never have an answer. I guess it goes with the territory. Let me introduce myself. My name is Noah Wolfe. I’m a news writer for The Journal, the largest metropolitan newspaper, in New York. I was given the name Noah, because it was my mother’s favorite biblical person. Having a name like Noah, I got my fair share of teasing growing up. It was common to hear:

Hey, Noah, it’s raining outside, have you started building your ark? some of the kids would joke.

Others would just look and say, There goes Noah, trying to load the animals up two by two.

Somehow, all that teasing seemed to make me tougher, so I could survive the tortures of human existence of this modern-day paradox.

The year is 2030, it’s early August and the humidity has reached an all-new high or so it seems. Your clothes stick to your skin as though they are permanently part of your body; and when you finally get to take them off it feels as though the first two layers of skin comes with them, and usually does. This is normal for this time of year. In a few months, the winds will begin to blow and the temperature will fall to a frosty twenty below. So you enjoy the hot weather while it’s here.

Most of the time the weather dictates the mood of the people in the city. For instance, today three people were killed at a shopping mall, five women were raped in broad daylight, and there was an assassination attempt on the mayor, and that was before lunch. This is the busiest time of year for a news writer. You’re running all over the city trying to cover as much of the mayhem, as you can, and every breath you take seems to remind you of the suffocating heat and humidity or is it the smell of death and rotting garbage that causes you to gasp and wheeze. Sometimes it’s even hard for me to tell.

The day has ended and the trip home was more than enjoyable. It took over half an hour to go the three miles back to my apartment, and the taxi driver was a pleasant person, especially to the other drivers. Obviously, he thought he owned the road with the hand gestures he was making, and they weren’t the right or left hand turn signals. I don’t know why he was aggravating the other drivers. The whole way home I kept thinking ‘I’m dead, you’re dead, and someone is going to run us off the road, pull out a gun, and to make sure there are no witnesses he’ll kill us both.’ I had not completely finished my thought when the driver caught me staring at him and in a low kind of hacking voice said, What are you looking at?

The next few moments passed and nothing was said. All he did was look in the rear view mirror, and my thoughts changed from another driver killing us both to this driver finding the first alleyway, pulling in, and shooting me himself.

When fear had all but consumed me and my heart was beating louder than the sounds of the traffic around us, the cab came to a stop and once again that same eerie low hacking voice spoke, 1235 Ninety-fifth Street,

Excuse me? I questioned

1235 Ninety-fifth Street, this is your stop. He turned completely around and stared right through me.

Oh, yea! Right, this is my stop. My voice was still shaking from my imagination. I was trying so hard to find the words.

Thankful to be alive and near the safe haven of my own apartment, I quickly opened the door, and with a sudden burst of energy began to make my way to the apartment building. I was not even to the sidewalk when once again that haunting low hacking voice spoke.

Hey you, his voice echoed in a more urgent and angry tone, aren’t you forgetting something?

I turned toward him only to see his hand making a motion to come back to the cab. The three steps back to the door of the cab felt as if I had on concrete shoes and the cab was a mile away. With knees shaking and heart pounding, I leaned into the cab not knowing what fate had in store.

His face was unshaven. His eyes were slightly squinted and his breathing was very heavy. The smoke from the cigar he was smoking felt as though it was choking what little life I had left. My imagination began to run amuck. I was to the point of dropping to my knees to beg for my life when that distinct sound of his voice pierced my ears.

You gonna jip me on the fare? he asked

Oh no! No sir! I replied while fumbling for my money in my front pants pocket. I wouldn’t dream of it.

Are you nervous? he asked, his hand reaching toward the glove compartment.

How much do I owe you? I asked while holding out a twenty-dollar bill with hands that shook worse than the Los Angeles earthquake of ‘99.

Your total fare comes to thirteen fifty, he answered in that low hacking voice.

Hey! You’ve been such a nice driver, I tell you what, you keep the change. Just don’t kill me. I whispered the last part so he really couldn’t hear me.

I heard muffled thanks as he drove away ending the nightmare ride home, but I know tomorrow was another day and another trip home. Perhaps, I should invest in some good running or walking shoes. That way, I wouldn’t have to take any more rides with complete lunatics in cabs.

Once inside the building, I have a normal routine. First I check my mail. You never know when you could be a ten million dollar winner or get lucky and get the Victoria’s Secret catalog by mistake. Mom always said you got to have dreams. Once I check the mail, I head right for the elevator. I live in a three-room loft apartment on the top floor of the building. It’s a great view! The only problem is, if there were a fire, I would be toast.

The lady who lives across the hall looks like she knew President Nixon personally. She always wears dresses, and her hair is silver white. Her face is nothing but wrinkles. The sad thing about it is you don’t know where her wrinkles end and her mouth begins.

Hello, Mrs. Winslow! How are you doing? I’m almost yelling so she can hear me.

Bah, she mumbles, turning and walking slowly back into her apartment and shutting the door behind her.

Once the door is shut, you hear the unmistakable sounds of 10 locks. She is quite a talker you just have to get her started. She is a quiet neighbor. I sometimes cook meals for her and leave them on her doorstep. I ring her bell, wait for the sound of the locks, and then proceed back to my apartment. I watch through the peephole as she takes the plate inside. The next morning, the plate is clean and by my door. She’s never once thanked me, but I feel deep down she appreciates the meals, and it gives me a sense of knowing I’ve done my good deed for the day.

Hi, honey I’m home! I yell when I get in the door. I’m not married, but I do have a fish named honey. I named my fish Honey just so visitors won’t think I’m nuts and Mrs. Winslow knows it’s me coming home.

My apartment is spacious, but in dire need of a live-in housekeeper. Newspapers, magazines, and copy paper litter the living room floor; but it’s home where I get what little sleep I get. The place is kind of roomy for one person, but mom says get it bigger now so you won’t have to move when you marry. Who has time to think about marriage; and with such high divorce rates, you couldn’t afford to live in a place of this size after you go through a divorce. My favorite part of the apartment is the large picture windows that let you look out at the city. From this distance everything looks so normal. You don’t hear the sound of the guns going off, the screams for help, sirens, or the many horns of the passing traffic. It’s almost a world within the world.

Once I’ve made it in to the apartment, I check my messages, and I see what’s new and exciting on television. I grab a snack, and then I settle in for a long night of work. The story for tomorrow’s journal is a follow up to a story I covered around a month ago. It seems that someone decided to end a teenage hooker’s life by removing her uterus, cutting out her tongue and removing her nipples from her breast. Then he would replace them with petals from a dogwood tree. Whoever committed this horrible crime then wrapped the girl in a sheet and put a small crucifix around her neck. I could probably write hundreds of stories like this a week, but I don’t think any would be as bizarre as this one.

Suddenly, the piercing echo of thunder woke me from the deepest sleep I have had in three days. I had fallen asleep on the couch. The thunder rolled through me like a tidal wave, as the apartment shook violently like an earthquake. The raindrops sounded like a barrage of bullets hitting the large picture window, as flashes of lightning illuminated the room like flashbulbs from a camera. I sat up on the couch and a photograph of the girl wrapped in the sheet fell to the floor. I became entranced by the draped figure. The questions that raced through my mind made me dizzy, and the one that pounded louder than the thunder was why? That was the question I had to answer. I leaned over and picked up the picture, walked over to the window, and sat in the chair. I watched the rain run down the window like tears from a child’s eyes. I wonder if anyone cries for you, I whispered to myself as I clutched the picture in one hand, and continued to watch the storm.

The next morning, I got an early start. It was still pouring down rain when I left my apartment building. Even with an umbrella, I was still soaked to the skin when I finally was able to flag down a cab. I made a mental note to myself to call a cab if it’s raining so it can be waiting for me. It sure beats getting soaked to the bone trying to hail one down. Traffic was light because of the weather so the trip to work was much more pleasant than the trip home the night before.

My first stop would be to check in at the paper and get permission to investigate these bizarre murders. Then I could start finding some answers to the questions surrounding the young girl’s death. I was bound and determined I would not take no for an answer on this. I went over all the possible scenarios in my head, even the one of me getting fired. Yet, I had a true confidence in myself today that said I was going to get my way.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN I arrived at the paper, I immediately went to Mr. Jacobs’ office. Mr. Jacobs is the editor in chief of the newspaper, and my boss. Nothing gets done unless he personally approves it. Mr. Jacobs full name is William T. Jacobs, and he’s been editor in chief of "The Journal" for eleven years. It’s very hard to convince a man who is six foot four and weighs at least 250 pounds to let you go chasing after a story that maybe nothing but a wild goose chase.

I don’t know why, but I wasn’t going to take no for an answer today. Call it a gut instinct, but somehow I knew this girl’s story had to be told. So without thinking I walked right into Mr. Jacobs’s office and closed the door.

Mr. Jacobs’s office has a large wooden desk with pictures of his wife and two children positioned where he can see them as he works. In the corner sits a huge green plant his wife bought him, and all the normal things you would find in a boss’s office. You know tape recorder, computer, phone, and the big golf trophy he won last year. It has its own special table that no one can touch. The one thing that stands out about his office is that it has windows all the way around. He can stand up, turn around, and see everything that goes on.

Have a seat Mr. Wolfe, he said without ever looking up from his desk. What can I do for you?

I have a request, I replied.

If you want time off you can’t have it, he quickly answered. You know this is the busiest time of the year for the paper, he added.

I don’t want time off sir, I need your permission to investigate the death of the young hooker they found yesterday. She was murdered the same way as another young hooker just last month, I said. My voice was strong and urgent.

Why do you want to waste the paper’s valuable time on a hooker? She’s dead and your investigation into her death isn’t going to bring her back. Besides, she was a hooker. Hookers are prime targets for any madman who wants to rough someone up, just for the fun of it. He looked up. Now was there something else you needed?

I turned around, and opened the door pausing, What if she was your little girl? I questioned his last remarks. What if someone took the only thing you hold more precious than your own life? Wouldn’t you want the person or persons responsible? I’m sure if you leave it to the authorities, you’ll get the results you really want.

The next sound I heard was Mr. Jacobs chair hitting the back wall, and then in a convincing voice these words reverberated through my entire body.

Sit down Wolfe!

I immediately shut the door. I made my way to the chair across from his desk, and slowly sank down. He came around to my side of his desk and with arms crossed leaned back onto the desk. His body had blocked the light coming in through the window and I felt cold sitting in his shadow. The only thought that was in my head was the next words out of his mouth. Would they be you’re fired Wolfe? The silence was deafening. The room was so quiet; my mind became transfixed to the sound of the ticking of the clock.

If you can give me a good reason why it will be beneficial to the paper to further investigate these murders, you can take all the time you need to get your story, as he leaned over and pointed his finger just inches away from my face, But if I see this investigation hurting the paper in any way, shape, form, or fashion, not to mention my own reputation, you will immediately cease any other action involving this matter. Do I make myself clear?

Crystal clear, Sir!

Now tell me more about these two murders, he said, as he sat down in his chair, and put on his glasses.

I took out two photographs, one photo of each of the bodies of the two girls that had been found murdered, and began to explain.

Sir, this is the first victim, Maria Cordello. She was thirteen years old and had been living on the street prostituting herself for the last three years.

My God! Mr. Jacobs interrupted, my youngest child is ten.

Why do they do it? he asked in disbelief.

It’s really simple, they have nowhere else to go. Schools are now for the more elite students, the parents can’t afford to keep them, so the only alternative is the street, I tried to answer him the best I could.

Continue, please, he requested.

The next victim, I said handing him the second photograph, Ling Woo, was an Asian teenager, whose parents are naturalized citizens. She is also thirteen and has been a prostitute for about two years. Both girls were put through some kind of ceremony or something.

How do you know? he asked interrupting once again.

Both girls were stripped of their clothing, their uteruses were cut out, their tongues were severed, the nipples were sliced from their breasts and replaced with the blooms of a dogwood tree. Then the bodies were cleaned and wrapped in a white sheet. The most bizarre aspect of the whole ceremony is that the person or persons placed a silver crucifix around each of the girl’s necks.

Mr. Jacobs leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses from his face. He could not take his eyes from the two photographs with the covered bodies of the two young girls. Laying his glasses on the desk, Mr. Jacobs put his hands to his face his hands came together at his chin, giving the impression that he was praying.

Remember, Wolfe, you step out of line or cause any problems for this paper and you’ll be selling copies on the corner, you understand? he said gruffly.

I understand you perfectly. I said, as I made my way out the door.

Glancing back through the window of his office, I watched Mr. Jacobs take the picture of his family off his desk and hold it tightly against his chest.

CHAPTER THREE

MY next stop was my desk to grab my bag. My bag is my life. It’s where I keep my camera, note pads, pencils, and most importantly my tape recorder. Plus, whatever else I need to cover a story. I’ve had it ever since I was at college. It’s a brown leather knapsack more or less, with a flap that straps down and a strap you can put over your head so that your hands are kept free to do other things.

After picking up my bag, I was off and running again. When I got outside, I noticed that the rain had eased somewhat. So, instead of taking a cab, I decided to walk to where the first victim was found.

Maria, the first girl murdered, was found in a grove of trees, in the park, lying on a bench. The police still had the area around the bench taped off, because, it was still considered an unsolved murder. The funny thing about it is there are countless taped off areas in the city. The ground around the bench still showed patches where her blood discolored the soil. Dried spots of blood could also be seen on the legs of the bench, as well as, the bench itself. So I knew the murder happened in this location.

I knew that the crime scene wouldn’t give up any clues, because of the number of police and media persons who had trampled through the area. I decided to take the investigation to the more recent crime scene; maybe there, I can find some much needed answers to some of the more difficult questions.

I began to walk away from the scene of the murder when the hairs on the back of my neck began to stand on end, as though somebody was watching me. I turned sharply looking back to the crime scene, but no one was there. All I saw was the plastic yellow tape and the bench.

Just as I had turned to leave the park and head to the other crime scene, the rain began to pour out of the clouds in sheets. I ran to the nearest shelter. I was soaked to the bone. I put my bag on the picnic table, and opened up the strap. I pulled out the two files and began going over the locations. I reached back in my bag and pulled out a towel that’s normally used to dry the lens of my camera. Since the camera was dry, and I was soaked, I figured the towel would be put to better use drying my face.

I looked more closely at the two photos and noticed that in both murders, some type of bench was used to lay the bodies on. As I looked around the park with the rain coming down, I also noticed many people walking in the area of the murder. The location of the second girl’s body was one of the city’s large playgrounds, and that meant large crowds were passing by at most hours of the day. This could mean only one thing. The murders happened at night; and if that were the case, nobody would stop to help, even if they heard the girl’s last scream.

The rain had begun to stop. The tin roof on the park shelter no longer sounded like it had bb’s bouncing off it. So putting everything back in my bag, I walked out into the park heading to the playground where Ling Woo’s body was discovered. The sun began to peek through the thin layer of smoky gray clouds causing the humidity to rise back to normal.

To reach the playground by walking, I had to walk through a section of the city commonly know as Sex Town. Why is this particular section of the city call Sex Town? Because, for over five square blocks you can get anything you want that is remotely related to sex.

There are shops where you can get all different kinds of sexual aids, like toys, whips, chains, handcuffs, and I could go on and on. I mean if it’s been invented one of these stores has it. If it hasn’t been invented, they will do their best to invent what you need. They have other stores for leather goods, shops you can buy costumes for role playing, shops for magazines, computer discs, live nude dancing, total nude dancing, peep shows, and xxx movie theaters. There are brothels where you can choose the sexual lifestyle of your partner, for example, transvestites, transsexuals, nymphomaniacs, bisexuals, homosexuals, orgies, and even necrophiliacs. If you want sex with animals, they will sell you the animal, or you can rent an animal just like a prostitute. There are even shops that sell child pornography, and it’s all legal. It reminds me of the story my mother would read me from the Bible about Sodom and Gomorrah. The sad thing about ‘Sex Town is that at one end sets a large Catholic Church.

This is where most of the young prostitutes hang out. The streets are full of prostitutes trying to make enough money to pay their pimps plus have something left over for their own survival. Most of the prostitutes make really good money, because there never seems to be a shortage of paying customers. I use to cover many rapes in this area, but now they happen so frequently, it really isn’t news anymore.

Every time I enter this section of the city, my skin begins to crawl, like I’m covered in tiny little bugs. The streets are so dirty, the smell of rotting garbage penetrates my nostrils to the point I have to rely on sheer will just to keep myself from vomiting all over the street. How can people live down here? Are they so accustomed to the smell they mentally block it out?

It’s best that you keep one eye looking straight ahead and the other looking down at your feet. The sidewalks are full of used condoms and tampons. Get them wet they will stick to your shoes like glue, and believe me you don’t want to have to peel them off your shoes. Me personally, I throw my shoes away.

Very seldom do I get through Sex Town without getting hit on by one of the ladies of the evening, or in this case I guess it would be a lady of the afternoon, since its just three o’clock. Today was no exception. I had just reached the second corner, when a very young girl wearing too much eye shadow and lipstick approached me.

Hey, baby! she said sexily.

What do you say we go up to my place and I’ll give you something you won’t forget for a long time? she continued, running her hands up and down her body, and walking backwards in front of me.

I replied with a simple, No thank you.

I then stopped and asked, Aren’t you a little young to be doing this?

Hey, baby, I may be young, but I know how to make you feel real good, she purred once again using her sexiest voice.

Tell you what! Since this is your first time with me, I’ll give you the first hour at half price, she said trying to be persuasive.

No thank you, I replied once again, as I began to walk away.

The young girl that approached me could not have been but thirteen or fourteen years old. She must have been Mexican- American, judging by her speech. Her skin was a rich dark tan. Her hair was very black and long, and she had the most beautiful big brown eyes. Her clothes were nothing more than a black semi-lace push up bra on top, and to be only thirteen or fourteen, I couldn’t believe how well endowed she was. She wore a skintight short black leather mini-skirt with black fishnet stocking and a pair of black stilettos. Her make-up was on so thick she reminded me of this lady mom use to make fun of. Her name was Tammy Faye something. I’ll think of her last name later. She finally gave up and left me alone.

The playground came into view as I turned the corner of Eleventh and Cherry Street. The sounds of children playing filled my ears. When I got closer, the all to familiar sight of yellow tape with the words crime scene written on it became the focal point of my attention. The sounds of the playground faded into my sub-conscience, until everything became deathly quiet.

Walking through the playground, I could see the children playing on the merry-go-round. Parents were pushing their children on the swings. Children were smiling as they climbed on the jungle gym. I began to look around at all the children running and having fun. All the sights that make up a happy place, and yet, I couldn’t hear a sound. It seemed like one of those old movies where everything is moving in slow motion. I could see the children playing, but my attention kept drifting back to the lines of yellow tape.

I opened my bag when I reached the cordoned off area, and lifting the tape, I climbed under. I pulled the file on Ling Woo and observed the photos of the crime scene. Because of the rain, most of the blood had washed away from the concrete bench, except for the blood that was protected underneath the bench. The police took fingerprints, and picked up all the visible evidence there might have been. However, I was hoping for a slim chance that they might have overlooked something. Perhaps, the photos will shed some light on what is here.

Setting my bag down outside the cordoned off area, I retrieved my tape recorder. I began surveying both the photos and the area. I recorded these observations:

August 16th, recorded memo for story on the slain teenage hookers.

The victim, Ling Woo, was found wearing no clothing, except for the white shroud that covered her naked body. Question: Where are her clothes? Searching the photo, and examining the report the police gave me there is no mention of clothing being found. Next question: Did the murderer take the girls clothing? If not, who did take the clothes? Was it the murderer or maybe one of the many homeless persons living in the area? Let’s say the murderer did take the clothes. Where would he hide the clothes? The logical answer would be to dump them someplace like a dumpster or in the river. While I’m on the subject of clothing, where did the murderer take his clothes? I don’t think if you just butchered someone you would take your clothes to a dry cleaners. Personally, I think it would be hard to explain to the guy behind the counter how you got the blood on your clothes. Anyway getting back to the observations. Footprints, or should I say the lack of footprints. Even in the park, not a single footprint could be found. With the weather being so dry, the ground around the park bench was hard as a rock. Since the bench, at the playground, sits on a concrete section you’d expect not to find footprints. Which brings me to fingerprints, not one fingerprint was found on the bodies, but there were more than one hundred different fingerprints found on the two benches. Last but certainly not least, the murder weapon, where is it? What happened to the death instrument? Apparently the murderer intends to use the same knife to commit another murder. Why else would he hold on to the one thing that could clinch a guilty verdict from a jury? The sixty-four thousand dollar question is who is callous enough to take such brutal action, yet, patient enough to clean up after themselves knowing that at anytime someone could see them mutilate these young girls?

I clicked the stop button on my recorder, and once more surveyed the area for any possible clues to this violent crime. Recognizing it was meaningless to search further, I slowly walked over to where I put my bag. Bending down, I put away the tape recorder and the file.

Just as before, the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. Slowly rising to my feet, I began to scan the area for whoever was watching me. It was getting late and only a few children remained on the playground. However, none of them were staring at me, they were too busy playing to care what I might be doing.

I maneuvered my bag strap over my head and turned away from the playground. Off to the right of the concrete slab was a small overgrown area of trees and bushes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the bushes move. I began walking toward the bush, hoping to scare what was there into the open. Suddenly, the bush stopped moving. The lump in my throat felt like the size of a watermelon. I could not stop myself from looking into the bush, knowing that in the next few seconds I could be a victim myself.

I leaned over and parted the bushes. A large yellow streak jumped at me causing me to slip on the muddy ground. I fell backwards striking my head against the ground. In a slight daze, I peered over my body to get a glimpse of the person. Just as I raised my head to look, my assailant pounced on my chest, causing my head to once again hit the muddy ground. I started praying a silent prayer; because I knew within a few seconds I would take my last breath. Then I heard it.

Meow, meow! the assailant spoke.

Glancing at the figure on my chest, I saw the yellow streak was nothing more than a huge yellow tabby cat. I pulled myself to the sitting position, and commenced to stroke the cat. It started purring under my touch, and I knew I had made a friend.

You live around here? I asked, as the cat continued to purr.

You know you really had me scared. You should be more careful about hiding in bushes, I said continuing to pet the cat.

I picked him up and got to my feet. Holding the cat directly in front of my face, I asked him what was really on my mind.

Did you see who murdered the young girl? I asked, hoping the cat would give me an answer.

Meow! was the only reply I got.

Did he give you the answer you were looking for? a male voice from behind me asked.

I turned around to see who had asked the question, and to my surprise it was a priest. He was wearing your typical priest outfit. Black pants, black shoes, black shirt, and the bright white collar. He was an older gentleman with black hair, except for the distinguishing gray hairs on his sideburns and mustache. His face was leathery with age. If I were to guess, he was probably between the ages of sixty to sixty-five.

I was still holding the cat when he put out his hand for me to shake. I positioned the feline to where I freed one of my hands to shake his hand.

My name is Father Stephens, from St. John Bosco Cathedral, and I want to thank you for finding Morris. He’s my dearest companion, he said, while still shaking my hand.

Actually I didn’t find him, he found me, I replied.

Well, it doesn’t matter who found whom. I’m just glad he’s all right. I don’t understand him. He usually follows me everywhere I go, but today he was nowhere to be found, he added.

Cats will be cats, was the only thing I could think of to say.

I handed the cat over to him, and he held him up close to his face and kissed the furry little beast on the head. I felt a heartwarming feeling come over me as I watched the priest play with his once lost friend. I could only wonder if the reunion of the two dead girls with their parents would have had the same feeling.

I looked myself over, and commenced to wipe the mud from my clothes. The priest saw how dirty I was and asked, Would you like to come to the church and clean yourself up a bit before your journey home?

No thank you, Father, it’s getting kind of late and I think I’ll just head for home, I answered.

At least come to the church, so I can call you a cab, he added.

Really Father it isn’t necessary, besides I like to walk. It helps me think, I replied.

Father, did you know the girl that was murdered the other night? I asked hoping to get a little information.

Yes, I did, he sniffled. We try to help many of the young girls who want to get off the street. We give them a safe place to spend the night if their pimps have beaten them or they are trying to get away from this place. It really doesn’t matter what the reason. We will offer them sanctuary. We will offer them absolution. Ling Woo was on her way to getting a ticket to her aunt and uncle’s home in Upstate New York. She had left the night before she was found butchered, he paused, wiping a tear from his eye. I was the one who told her aunt and uncle the news, he finished.

I’m sorry father, I said. You’ve been a big help.

Are you a detective? he asked.

Nope, my name is Noah Wolfe, I said, handing him my card. I’m a reporter.

I walked away from the good Father, leaving him and his cat to catch up on the day’s activities. I guess since a priest can’t have a wife, or for that matter any children, I guess the next best thing is a pet.

God be with you Noah! I heard him call as I walked away.

I waved my arm over my head to say thank you. When I turned the corner of Eleventh and Cherry Street, I took one last look at the yellow taped area. The only thing different about it was the priest holding his cat.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE sun was setting on Sex Town. The neon, from all the marquees, was enough to blind a person. The rain had made puddles in the street, and the reflections of the neon just made it that much brighter. I walked down the sidewalk, once again choosing my steps carefully. The line of cars along the streets was mind blowing. Every one of them was a potential customer for the hookers lining the streets. If you liked them young and beautiful they were there. If you want tall and skinny, blonde, brunette, redheads, short, fat, ugly, cute and fat, ugly and fat, all you had to do is show them the money and they were yours for the next hour or the whole night whichever you preferred.

My mind thought back to the priest. If I can’t stand to walk through this place without it making me sick to my stomach, how does it make him feel to have to live down here all the time. The things he must endure, knowing his church sets at the end of Sex Town.

As I continued to walk through Sex Town, I turned and noticed two large muscle bound men following me. I turned back around and kept walking at the same pace. When I got to the cross walk at Ninth and Cherry Streets, I turned again and the two men were fondling one of the young hookers. When the light changed I walked across the street. I decided to keep my guard up just in case they started following me again. Lucky for me I kept watching. Half way through the block, I notice the same two guys getting closer. I picked up my speed until I was in a dead run going across Eighth Street. I turned for only a second to see if the two men were chasing me. Sure enough, the two men were also in a dead run. I turned back around just in time to watch the traffic signal change from walk to don’t walk. I knew in the back of my mind if I stopped, the two men chasing me would catch up. So without slowing down I headed right out into the flow of traffic heading north on Seventh Street.

The sound of brakes squealing and cab drivers yelling filled the air and my head. In that instant, one of the cabs stopped right in front of me. I hit the hood and rolled over the cab landing on my feet, again taking off in a dead run. I then ran into the first shop with an open door.

I didn’t see the sign of the shop in which I chose to run. It was a rude awakening, however, to look up and see the horrific sight of two small children engaged in a most grotesque sexual act on a large big screen television. It was all I could do to stomach the perverted portrayal of two small children acting in such a manner. To divert my attention away from the screen, I turned away, and watched the street from the safety of the store. Trying desperately to catch my breath, I noticed the two men who were chasing me run past the store windows. I watched them until they were out of sight.

Is there something I can help you with? someone asked, tapping me gently on the shoulder.

As a matter of fact you can, I wheezed, turning to see who was tapping me on the shoulder.

To my surprise the person I saw was a young woman in her early twenties. She was beautiful. Her hair was a golden blonde and flowed around her face all the way down the center of her back. Her eyes were the palest blue, the kind of blue you see on a crystal clear lake with the sun shining on it. She had no blemishes on her face, and her lips were full with a bright red glossy lipstick covering them. She had an hourglass figure, and the black skintight cat suit with the black knee high boots, showed every contour of her body to its fullest.

So what would you like? she asked once again.

Excuse me? I asked her, for my mind was still gazing at her beauty.

You said I could help you. So what would you like to see? We have an assortment of books, magazines, newsletters, movies, computer software, and photos of any kinky thing you can imagine two young children doing, and for a hundred dollars you can see two live children in the live theater, she explained, giving me the salesperson dribble.

Oh no! No! No! You have it all wrong! I don’t endorse any of this kind of behavior, in fact it sickens me to see such things, I replied quite harshly.

Then why are you here? she hatefully asked.

I was being chased by two men and your shop was the closest place to hide. I darted in here before they saw me. I said, trying to explain my actions.

Two men chased you in here? That’s really original, she said, questioning my last statement.

"Yes! They were chasing me. Let me explain. I’m Noah Wolfe, a reporter for The Journal. I’m doing an investigation for the paper on the two young hookers that were murdered," I said, hoping she would understand my embarrassment.

"Are you referring to the two girls who were deprived of