Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

He wasted no time, knowing exactly where most people kept their most valuable possessions. He scoured the room looking for gold, silver, anything that he could sell easily. Pulling the casing from one of the bed pillows he collected his bounty, quite happy with what he was finding. The woman obviously had remarkable taste in only the finest of jewelry, which pleased him, as he stuffed her items into the bag. Satisfied that everything he wanted or needed was cleared from the bedroom, he trotted down the hall to the office. Again, he looked through the drawers, cupboards, closet, until he found a.38 caliber handgun hidden in the bottom drawer of the desk, sitting atop a strongbox, designed to be screwed-down to a concrete floor, but this one was free floating.

“Either new, or the jerk is too lazy to take care of his shit,” ‘Rob’ thought. “His loss is my gain.”

Unfortunately, it was locked, but not so heavy that he couldn’t just take the whole thing, which he did. He was surprised that the owner had not foreseen this. He also included the gun, tossing it in with the other items collected from the bedroom.

"Now to the business of scaring the shit out of the neighborhood."

The intruder returned to the kitchen, with his booty in tow, placed the pillowcase on the table before stuffing the lockbox into the backpack for later discovery. He surveyed the kitchen looking for two important items, a large butcher knife and a carving fork. Finding both, he removed a can of spray paint from another pocket in the pack, the same red that was used to write, ‘We’re Back’, in the Criddle home. Then he bounded up the stairs, two at a time, to finish his work. In the bedroom he had previously noted a picture of the loving couple standing at the back of a chartered fishing vessel, a large fish, most likely a tuna or halibut, hanging from the rear fin and the couple smiling broadly, standing on either side, fishing poles in hand. Next to this picture was a 14x11” studio styled portrait of the man of the house, and on the other side of the fishing picture, a similar sized photo of the wife. Taking both pictures he smashed the frames on the side of the end table and removed the picture of the man first. He looked it over carefully before positioning it above the headboard of the bed, and drove the carving fork through his face, embedding the tongs in the drywall. With the man symbolically murdered, he turned his twisted attention to the female portrait. Positioning the picture symmetrically above the headboard, he drove the knife a good 6 inches through her face and into the wall. He stood back at the end of the bed and studied his work.

“Perfect! Time for the artwork,” he thought. He shook the paint can, listening to the ball bearing moving throughout the can, mixing the paint. Aiming the nozzle at the wall he began to spray. Large ten-inch letters began to fill the space on the wall between the pictures, “DEATH TO RICH PIGS”, again he examined his handiwork and was pleased with the results.

A moment later he was standing at the kitchen table collecting his thoughts and his things, when he heard the sound of a garage door opening. He looked toward the front door to see headlights fill the large windows and scan the walls moving from right to left. Sheer panic gripped him. No time, no time! He slung the backpack over his shoulders, took the pillowcase in hand, just as he heard car doors slam. ‘Rob’ swung the back door open, exited quickly, but took the time to close the door behind him. He ran for his freedom, with the pillowcase in the right and shoes in his left. Reaching the fence he tossed both over, sensing lights being turned on behind him. Climbing the obstacle was much tougher without shoes on but he managed just as the kitchen light came on, then the back porch light. He found his shoes, slipped them on without tying the laces, and at a dead run weaved his way through the pecan trees, headed back towards the church. He’d covered about 50 feet when he heard the first blood-curdling scream from the bedroom, followed by another, and another.

Thursday morning Beverly Davis sat at her kitchen table enjoying a cup of her favorite coffee, she’d had another sleepless night. The loss of her husband eight years ago and the ongoing battle with his stepson, Jeremy, was adding pounds and wrinkles to the middle-aged woman. Her Day-Timer was open before her, nothing too pressing, needed to talk with Blanche Delaney about a couple of condos that just went on the market in the new area south of the base, also needed to check the status of the estate sale. She was anxious to get her hands on the money after so many years of legal battles but she was certain the war was not over. The coffee was just what she needed to get going this morning. Taking another drink she let it swirl around in her mouth before swallowing it down.

“Wish I had a donut to dunk in this,” she thought.

Her cell phone rang and ‘Dixie’ played, she flipped it open, “Good mornin’, this is Bev,” in her sweetest, what the hell do you want already this morning, accent.

“Morning Beverly, this is Earl Tidball, I’m calling on behalf of the Okala Development Group.”

Her ears perked up. This was the group that had been in negotiations in regards to a large tract of land, that she had the realty rights to, a few miles from Moody Air Force Base. She was sure it was a done deal and was waiting for the finalization of some paperwork, title searches and such.

“Yes, Mr. Tidball, I’m well aware of who you are. How are you this morning? I was hoping we might wind things up this week and get that property transferred to your group.” She always tried to put a positive spin on every deal, even if it wasn’t a firm offer yet.

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m calling. We, or shall I say, the purchasing department, is having second thoughts about the timing of this transaction. In the past week alone we’ve seen the number of condominiums on the market skyrocket in the properties adjacent to this particular section of land. The group is concerned that perhaps the area is already saturated and our intent would be to put more multiunit housing projects in place. We’ve also noted a downward trend in the real market values of the homes in that particular area as well. This is a difficult trend for us to navigate when considering a purchase so very close to this unusual local phenomenon.” Not allowing Ms. Davis a chance to ask any questions, he pressed on, “I’m sure you’re well aware of the problems they’re having, which seem to be escalating, and we realize it could all well be over within a day or two but there is the remote possibility that it could be years. We are just not willing to assume the risk, at least not at this time. We are terribly sorry, we understand that you’ve put a great deal of work into the sale and our negotiations, but we are well within our legal rights to withdraw our offer, which is what we intend to do, in writing, this morning.”

It felt, to Beverly, like someone had just run a dagger through her heart, chest pain, unable to breath, anxiety and anger rising, “I thought, I mean, this is coming out of left field. Just yesterday we were on track and there were no problems. Surely the little blip in condo prices is not enough to pull out of such an amazing opportunity. This is literally one of two parcels of land that will ever be available to develop in the Northern Valdosta Region. The upside is huge! I can’t believe you’re considering withdrawing your offer. Perhaps if we just met this morning and addressed your concerns we could….”

He cut her off, “Ms. Davis, unless you can assure us that the serial predator stalking the people and homes in that area can be stopped before we sign on the dotted line, it’s just not going to happen.”