The Perfect Crime

 

 

Chapter One

 

Derek Thompson and his fellow young commandos stalked through the dense woods hunting their prey, a small group of girls (enemy spies) having a picnic near the river. Goldie, Derek’s Golden Retriever, suddenly broke formation and set a flock of blackbirds screeching into flight with his loud barks. “Goldie, no!” Derek tried to call the usually well-behaved dog (the commandos scout) quietly back without alerting the spies.

Goldie looked back once, whined, then ran off towards a ravine north of the woods. Derek gave chase when she wouldn’t come back, and he heard her frantic barking. The eleven-year-old thought his dog had found a raccoon or some other animal, the way she was carrying on.

Derek called to the dog, but she just kept her head down, snarling. He called to his friends as he ran down the slope into the ravine and tried to see what the black and gray thing was that had his dog all worked up. “Goldie, what is it, girl? Come on, we gotta…Oh, God! Oh my god, oh crap, crap, crap!” He tried to stop, but too late, he slid the last few feet down the slope…right into the mess.


The stench hit him full blast, and his stomach violently erupted. Eventually, he got himself under control as the other boys came and found the grisly remains. Derek finally pulled Goldie away from the small, dark-haired girl and ran to get help.

 

A few weeks later, authorities arrested and charged John Dock, a janitor at the elementary school, with her murder. In the house he shared with his brother James, detectives found the missing girl’s clothes in a closet along with rope and an array of tools. Investigators found pliers, electrical tape, and a ball peen hammer, soldering iron, a Zippo lighter and even a camera. All contained her blood and hair, even the camera. When detectives developed the film inside the camera and the eight other rolls found in the house, they discovered how the tools were used. Right there in stunning clarity was almost a step-by-step journal of the abuse. In full Kodak color, the bruises, welts, cuts, and burns told the story of a little girl living with the worst pain imaginable. She should have been home playing with her kitten and worrying about her spelling test, but lived in terror, praying to die.

They also found boxes of books and magazines with a sadomasochistic bent. Yet more boxes revealed pictures of other children in various sexual acts. John’s prints were all over the tools and camera, his hair on her clothing. They had him cold.

 

Dock became a suspect after a witness remembered seeing him near the ravine, dumping garbage a week before the boys stumbled upon her body. The police found an old, rusted metal drum in his shed in which they retrieved fibers and hair from the girl, along with blood and tissue. It looked like a halfhearted attempt had been made to wash it out before being filled again with garbage. This criminal apparently wasn’t very smart.

 

 

Sickened and incredulous that something like this could happen in their sleepy town, the residents watched the unfolding of the trial, knowing that the bastard would probably get the death penalty.

Every eye in the local, smokey bar turned to the television set high on the wall. The volume was at its highest level as the patrons watched the ending of the trial that had rocked the town of Newburg for months.

John Dock had kidnapped, raped, and after weeks of unspeakable torture, finally killed 7-year-old Cheryl Wright. He tookay her from her backyard while her mother set the table for dinner and kept her in an old barn off of county road 4.

 

Dock’s first attorney tried to delay the trial and filed a motion for a change of venue, which was denied. Finally, as the trial got underway, Dock fired his attorney, and hired another. The slick talking new lawyer had a few tricks up his sleeve.

He tried to create doubt in the minds of the jury by accusing James Dock, John’s older brother. He explained that the evidence could not conclusively prove to have belonged to his client, as the brothers shared the property. There was no associative evidence. There was nothing to directly link the accused to the victim. The girl’s body had neither blood, hair, semen nor saliva to prove that he had any direct contact with her. He admitted that yes, the accused did regularly dump garbage there, and while it was illegal…surely does not prove murder.

James was a truck driver, and currently away. This helped put doubt in the jurist’s minds…why would someone leave town for weeks while his brother sat on trial for murder?

 

The jury had been deliberating for two days and news came that they had reached a verdict. Those unable to be in the courthouse watched televisions for the verdict they knew would come…Guilty.

Not a sound broke the silence in the tense courtroom as attorneys and anxious citizens awaited the verdict. The foreman passed a folded paper to a deputy, who passed it to the judge. Judge Riddick’s impassive face never changed as he asked the jury if the verdict was unanimous. He stared a moment at the jury, looking each in the face for a moment. Some could not meet the judge’s gaze. He polled the jury to verify the unanimous verdict.

Judge Riddick read the charges once more and, with obvious sadness, spoke the words that had taken days to reach.

“John Allen Dock, this court has found you Not Guilty on all charges. It could not prove beyond reasonable doubt that you have committed the crimes in question.”

 

Outraged citizens soon broke the shocked silence in the courtroom and bars and living rooms all over town. In the little bar, people were screaming and throwing beer bottles at the television and didn’t hear anything else the Judge had to say. All were angry at the verdict and screamed and threatened to kill the twisted bastard. One man, sitting in the back, only gritted his teeth and walked out the door unnoticed.

Jack Bridger heard and was outraged by the verdict along with the rest of the people in the dimly lit bar, but one thing set him apart. He saw it coming. Jack had seen it all before and knew that the slick tongued shyster was planting just enough doubt. The muscular raven-haired ex cop opened the door of his blue 2001 Dodge Dakota as he dialed a number from memory on his cell phone, and only spoke two words. Those were “John Dock.”