Diamonds and Cole (29 page)

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C
ONTINUING
READING
FOR
AN
EXCERPT
OF
THE
NEXT
C
OLE
S
AGE
MYSTERY
,
C
ELLAR
F
ULL
OF
C
OLE

Phillip Wesley Ashcroft was a man of peculiar habits. A bachelor not by personal choice, but by the choice of what seemed to be the entire female sex. He lived alone. He had few, if any, friends, and a family that would just as soon pretend he didn’t exist. At work, he did what was expected and not much more. He arrived at exactly 8:55 A.M. and left promptly at 5:05 P.M.
 

He carried a red plaid lunch bag that zipped open to reveal a matching plaid thermos with a bright screw-off cap that doubled as a cup. In the thermos were the boiling hot contents of a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup heated each morning on the back left-hand burner of his stove. He never added the can of water as the directions instructed; he preferred his soup full strength. The bit of broth that wouldn’t fit in the thermos was added to a container kept in the freezer compartment of his refrigerator, to be used at some future date.
 

In a clear Ziploc sandwich bag, he packed seven saltine crackers—no more, no less. He would lay the bag on the lunchroom table and smash the crackers with the butt of his hand. After adding the bits to the soup, he would turn the bag inside out and lick the bottom seam. He delighted in the salty powder that was left behind. This daily ritual was unobserved by his fellow employees because Phillip Wesley Ashcroft always took lunch alone.

Although he found his work tedious, he seldom missed a day and, in fact, hadn’t bothered to take a vacation for the last three years in a row. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft occupied the same grey-carpeted cubicle for the past sixteen years. Once or twice a year, he brought a handheld vacuum cleaner to the office and thoroughly vacuumed all the carpeted surfaces.

Few things annoyed Phillip Wesley Ashcroft. By and large, he was lacking in malice. However, he hated the hairs on his fingers. He shaved them, waxed them, he even tried burning them off with a soldering iron, one hair at a time, but they always grew back. He hated the way he could see them when he bit his nails.
 

He also hated his thick body hair. This was probably from the resentment he felt for going bald at a young age. He bought infomercial goo to remove it. Twenty years ago, for almost a year, he had a smooth body. Arms, legs, back, even parts that chaffed and burned from the shaving and chemicals. He shaved his head, his eyebrows, and even plucked out his eyelashes. It took almost an entire day to get clean and smooth. But he did it. It was no use, though. It all grew back. The worst part was the itching. When it got to be about an eighth of an inch long, it almost drove him insane. So, he gave up. But his hands and fingers were different. Those
had
to be smooth.

Each night he washed them three times. He cleaned under his nails, or what was left of them, and applied lotion. He wore soft cotton gloves to bed and, in the morning, gently moisturized his hands with a lanolin-glycerin mixture he developed over several years. For a while, he thought of bottling and selling his mixture, and even designed a label, but he gave up the idea.

Today, the hair on his hands was particularly annoying him.
I must think of something else.
Phillip Wesley Ashcroft loved to play “thought games.” He delighted in knowing that he was miles away, deep inside his own world of words, and that if anyone were to walk by his cubicle, it would look like he was hard at work. Not like some of the people around him who played solitaire or Tetris on their computers. They always got caught, scolded, and told not to do it anymore—but they always did. Not Phillip Wesley Ashcroft, though. He was never scolded because there was no way to catch him. Except on rare occasions when his supervisor came to review his current project, no one bothered him. No one knew he was playing his own special games in his head.

Today’s game would be based on something he thought about on the bus to work. Today he would play with names. Not just any names, but names of people like himself who were referred to by all three of their names. Lee Harvey Oswald killed Kennedy. That was too easy, too obvious, he must try harder. John Wayne Gacy killed boys, painted clowns. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft thought Gacy was a pervert.
Who killed the other Kennedy?
he thought. Sirhan Sirhan, only two names. He smiled as he wondered if his middle name was also Sirhan.

James Earl Ray shot Martin Luther King, and claimed he was innocent to the end.
Who else?
Phillip Wesley Ashcroft thought as he shuffled the papers in front of him. John Wilkes Booth killed Lincoln. Billy Bob Thornton, who was he? Who did he kill?
Stupid
, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft thought to himself,
he’s an actor; he didn’t kill anybody
. Neither, for that matter, did Billy Ray Cyrus.

The guy who killed John Lennon was known by all three of his names, but Phillip Wesley Ashcroft took a vow to never speak them. Many famous murderers committed their crime to become famous, like the guy who killed John. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft would steal his fame, or at least a small part of it, by never speaking his name. He tried not to even think it. That way, he would remember the Beatle, but his killer would fade away because he would be nameless.

Henry Lee Lucas confessed to 3,000 killings, but the number was closer to 200. Tommy Lynn Sells said he killed 70. His favorite, though, was Jack “The” Ripper. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft giggled softly to himself for his cleverness. “
The,”
he thought,
was the perfect middle name.
He ended the game on a happy note.

Phillip Wesley Ashcroft started using all three of his names in 1991 when he read in the newspaper of Donald Henry “Pee Wee” Gaskins. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft loved the way the paper referred to him as “the meanest man in America.” Gaskins confessed to more than 200 murders but was convicted of only nine. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft bought Gaskins’ autobiography online and read with complete clarity and understanding of Gaskins’ claim that he possessed “a special mind” that gave him “permission to kill.”

That “special mind” was something Phillip Wesley Ashcroft shared with Pee Wee Gaskins. Although he never committed a murder, the time was drawing near. It would be a release to finally fulfill what he was put on Earth to do. The evil that crept over society was corrupting and perverting all things sweet and pure. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft spent hours worrying and watching as children passed in front of his apartment on their way to school each morning. He feared they would be corrupted somehow before they could make it to the safety of the classroom.

School was a safe place for Phillip Wesley Ashcroft. Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Duncan, and Miss Cotton all treated him like he was special.
Children need protection from parents who spank them for no reason,
he thought. At school, there were no cold baths to teach you not to wet the bed. There were no endless rantings about the value of a dime-sized splash of milk on the table. At school, you didn’t have to eat raw rice so you would value the hard work mommy took to cook your meals. At school, there was milk and graham crackers and a pat on the head for a job well done. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft loved school.

Children were much nicer than adults. He missed the nice little girls who would pass him notes in class. He missed the cookie or piece of candy they would give him from their lunch pails. How did those nice little girls grow up to be the short-tempered bitches that now surrounded him? Just let him make a mistake on a report or be late with an audit review, and watch their fangs come out.

The boys always invited him to play catch or dodge ball at recess. They would all ride their bikes home after school and pretend they were flying in formation like the Blue Angels. They never invited him for a drink after work now, did they? No jokes for him to hear at the soda machines, no lunchtime dash to the taqueria with a buddy, so he ate alone, ignored.

The answer was in the children. If they were preserved while they were still sweet and pure, they could be saved. They simply could not be allowed to grow into cold, distant, unfeeling adults. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft had no need for the fairy tale world of heaven. He knew there was nothing out there. No pearly gates, no sweet by and by, and certainly no streets paved in gold. There was just rest, perfect rest. The darkness and peace you feel in a deep motionless sleep; that is what awaits you when your heartbeat stops. That is what he could offer the children—the peace and the assurance of remaining innocent.

Phillip Wesley Ashcroft turned and looked at Beth Swann in the cubicle across the aisle. She was so involved in her own world of work, parties, and friends that she had no time for him. Not that she was his ideal. She was too thin, her hair was too straight, and she had a bump on the bridge of her nose. That didn’t stop a constant stream of men from passing by just to say “hi” to Beth and look down the front of her blouse. They would share a story about a co-worker, a pleasantry about a recent party or reception and, more often than not, inquire as to her social calendar for the weekend. It made him sick.

When she first came to the office, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft asked her to dinner. “So sorry” was her response; there was “a previous engagement.” That didn’t stop her from accepting an invitation from Martin Mauer five minutes later. Three years passed and she never looked in his direction, never offered him a cookie or piece of candy from her lunch pail. She grew up. She would have been much nicer twenty or so years earlier. He just knew it.

ALSO BY MICHEAL MAXWELL

Diamonds and Cole
(Cole Sage Mystery #1)

Cellar Full of Cole
(Cole Sage Mystery #2)

Helix of Cole
(Cole Sage Mystery #3)

Cole Dust
(Cole Sage Mystery #4)

Three Nails: A Novella

“The Return of the Bride” (a short story in the anthology,
Eight the Hard Way
)

Copyright © 2013 Micheal Maxwell

Ebook formatting by
Robert Swartwood

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Micheal Maxwell.