On Assignment
The Devil’s Road — CHAPTER 03: AN ITCH TO BE SCRATCHED
Welcome to Issue #8 of The Devil’s Road, a serial novel following the exploits of Samantha Hart, a Sequoyah County Sheriff, full of vengeance and fury using her badge to hunt down her sister's killer as she uncovers a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. If you missed it, you can read last week’s Chapter 2/Issue 4: Blowin' in the Wind.
If you are new to the series, I recommend you check out Chapter 1 which you can read or listen to for free here:
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And now, please enjoy Chapter 3 Issue 1 of … The Devil’s Road.
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.
The difference between discipline and vengeance might just be a matter of perspective. Captain James looms over Sam, towering a full fourteen inches above her, yet his hands are shockingly small in proportion to his massive frame. Sam’s attention fixes on one finger, the one wagging in front of her face as he berates her for simply doing her job.
That finger, with its unsettling smallness, is the only thing keeping her from indulging in the fantasy of seeing blood spurting from the Captain’s nose as her fist connects. The allure of violence is intoxicating, a moment of brief levity that must be carefully weighed against many factors—chief among them, her bank account. Samantha’s account is far too familiar with the color red, and she needs this job for reasons beyond just money. So she stands firm as Captain James finally runs out of breath, or maybe it’s just his finger giving out.
The words, though clearly important to Captain James, wash over Sam. This isn’t the first, and certainly won’t be the last, time she’s been subjected to a dressing-down from her superior. In fact, she’d probably lose faith in the system if he didn’t at least make the effort.
“Lieutenant, that’s an order, and I expect you to follow it.” Captain James barks, huffing and puffing as he tries to rein in his blood pressure, which seems perpetually perched on the edge of stage one hypertension.
Sam sees her chance to escape and tries to head for her cruiser, but Captain James steps into her path. “And I expect those files to be returned to the station when you get back.” He’s almost completely winded now.
“Affirmative, Captain,” she replies.
“You know, Samantha, if one of the other fellas tried to pull…” A series of harsh coughs interrupts him, followed by a long wheeze, but somehow he regains his breath, steadying himself. “…tried to pull that bullshit on me, I’d have had his badge.” He waits, expecting a response. Unfortunately for Sam, he’s fully recovered and doesn’t seem ready to back down this time, but neither is she.
“So kind of you to give a lady a break. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got a local to assist on a drunk driving call, Captain’s orders.” Sam shoves past her superior officer.
James spins around as she pushes past, and his blood pressure spikes once more. “Goddamn it. Samantha, you gotta quit chasing her ghost.” Her fingers tremble as she digs into her chinos for the key to her cruiser, but she can’t let him see her upset.
“She’s been dead for going on five years now,” he continues.
“I’m just trying to do my job,” Sam says over her should as she carries the camera equipment to the trunk of her car parked by the roadside. If she can get it stowed away without having to face him again, that would be ideal. But the keys have other plans. As she pulls them free from her pocket, they slip through her fingers, flying into the air. She tries to snatch them mid-flight, but she’s not fast enough. They tumble behind the car and skid along the asphalt, out into the highway. She steps onto the road to retrieve them just as a blaring horn pierces her eardrums. Sam leaps back as a semi-truck hurtles past on Highway 443.
It’s been nearly thirty years since Captain James ran forty yards in under six seconds, but today he finds there’s still some fuel left in the tank. Sam stumbles backward down the slope off the road and into the ditch, her hat flying off as her long hair tumbles loose. She lands in the dirt, and James reaches her just in time to offer a hand, which she swats away, getting up on her own with a defiant, “Fuck you!” Sam brushes herself off as she climbs back up to the roadside. This time, she looks both ways before retrieving her keys.
She places the camera in the trunk. Captain James opens the door for her to climb into the driver’s seat of her cruiser. If he thought she was looking for chivalry, the look on her face as she settles into the car tells him otherwise.
“I’m just trying to do my job,” Sam says.
“Then return the files. There’s a process here, and I expect you to follow it. Copy?” James says, dropping her hat onto her lap.
“Copy,” she replies, shutting the car door.
James leans down and taps on the driver’s side window. Sam doesn’t roll it down, but she does turn her head toward him so he knows she’s listening. He points to her left cheek.
“You’ve got something right there,” he says, tracing a finger along the path of a red streak on her face. Sam looks in the rearview mirror. Starting under her eye and disappearing behind her ear on the left side of her face is a streak of dried blood. It’s not hers. She nods at the Captain and starts the engine.
Captain James glances up the hill at the corpse and the small group of officers and technicians combing the site. They’re all too absorbed in their work to have noticed the spat between him and Lieutenant Hart. All except one. Bandy is facing away from the body, hands on his knees as if inspecting something on the ground. The likelihood of Bandy contributing anything meaningful to this investigation is slim to none, and he proves as much as whatever fight he had left abandons him, and he vomits into the grass.
“Jesus Christ, Bandy!” James hollers up the hill.
Bandy sees the Captain standing near the roadside, hands on his hips, and knows he’s been ordered to go down there. But he’s got one more… another stream of this morning’s eggs and toast hits the grass. Bandy moves as quickly as he can toward the Captain, though not too fast—he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s running away.
“Captain James,” Bandy says, reporting for duty.
“Bandy, hop in your cruiser and assist Lieutenant Hart on that drunk driving call she’s heading to, okay?” James orders.
“Oh, I mean, I can take it by myself. I know Sam got pretty pissed off when you told her she had to leave and couldn’t stay on the case.”
“Bandy, if I want any shit out of you, I’ll squeeze your head. Now get moving,” James says as he heads back up the hill to aid in the investigation. Bandy nods in agreement, as if he had a choice in the matter.
Sam opens the glove box of her cruiser. Inside, she has a small evidence collection kit with everything needed, from gunpowder residue testing to fingerprinting. She pulls out a cotton swab, a dropper of liquid, and a clear evidence bag. She applies two drops to the swab and gently wipes at the blood on her face. The wet swab absorbs a small amount of the dried blood.
There’s a quick rap on her driver’s side window that startles her. Outside, Bandy is leaning over, rotating his fist in the universal gesture for “roll down your window.” Samantha taps the button to lower it.
“Oh man, I didn’t know the new models had power windows,” he says.
“What is it, Bandy?” she asks.
“What’s that on your face there?” he asks, pointing to the now smeared red streak on her cheek.
“What’s that on your tie, Bandy?” she counters.
Bandy looks down and sees a small egg-colored stain on his uniform tie. He pulls out a hanky from his back pocket and wipes at it as he tries to explain.
“Well, Captain James thought maybe you could use some support on that drunk driving call, and, well, you know me, I wouldn’t want to see you getting into any trouble out there by yourself—”
That’s about all the condescension Sam can tolerate in one morning. “Bandy, just get in your cruiser and follow along.”
“Yes, sir… uh, ma’am. Lieutenant!” Bandy stammers, fumbling for his keys as he walks toward his cruiser.
Sam rolls her window back up and watches as Bandy eventually makes his way to his car. He’s a lingerer, one of those people who can’t seem to pick up on the social cues that clearly say, “Leave me the hell alone.”
She continues to follow the streak down her cheek until the tip of the swab is a dark maroon. If theses bodies had been men, or even something else besides what they were, this would be a media circus by midday. She drops the swab into the evidence bag, labels it “CASE 4490,” and places it back in her glove box. She uses her shoulder and upper arm to wipe the solution and the rest of the blood off her face.
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