The Meurtrier
by
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His thoughts of the detective being a wimp had vanished into thin air just seconds into their conversation. To Delmar’s surprise, Sam Garvey had come on with the weight of an anvil. He quickly concluded that the Atlanta detective was not just a badge decorating a desk somewhere. This squeaky voiced Garvey who sounded like a teenager over the phone, drove the message home loud and clear that you were definitely dealing with a heavyweight. After tending a few Saturday morning errands, and servicing the Cadillac, Delmar made his way leisurely to the Varsity. He drove slowly to the top deck and parked his car at a deserted part of the lot on the Spring Street side. He walked the hundred or so feet to the rear entrance, then strolled down the steps to the fifty yard long counter and ordered. He walked away moments later with five chilidogs, a large order of onion rings, and a Varsity orange drink. With his arm’s full and a gleam of anticipation on his face, hurriedly, he went up the stairs to the upper level. Taking huge strides, he then exited the building and headed for his automobile. Once seated in the Cadillac, he attacked the feast with a vengeance. He did little to hide the fact that he had been addicted to Varsity hot dogs since the age of ten. Making sure of the time he glanced at his watch before beginning to eat. It was only three o'clock. There was plenty of time before Sam Garvey was expected to arrive. By three thirty, Delmar had finished the huge meal. He became uncomfortable almost immediately because he had eaten the food so hastily. Stepping from the car intending to give his stomach some relief, a huge hand grabbed him from behind and spun him around. He was shoved roughly against the rear of his car. "ID, buster! Where is it?" the squeaky voice asked. Not in the habit of allowing anyone to manhandle him, Delmar decided this one time not to resist. "Right rear," he said easily. The gigantic man's free hand went directly to Delmar's right rear pocket and pulled out his wallet. With one hand still around Delmar's collar, he thumbed open the wallet to the IDs. "Didn't mean to jostle you around like that, friend, but I've been on thin ice lately," the apologetic Garvey said. "I gotta walk careful." Free from the huge man's grasp, Delmar straightened his cloths as he assessed the detective. It had been a long time since he had been thrown around like that. Being well over six feet tall and two hundred and twenty pounds himself, he hadn't expected it. "I take it, you're Sam Garvey," he said. "Give the boy a cigar," Garvey replied with a sneer. "You're early." "So are you." "I'm always early, no surprise that way." "You got surprised today," Garvey said with a snicker. Delmar smiled at the detective's attempt to control him. "So I did," he said, "so I did."
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About the Book
Private Detective Delmar Giddeon is inadvertently brought into a case involving a lone youth whose death was attributed to the infamous Wayne Williams of the Atlanta child murders. When he finds another private detective has been killed for his efforts, Giddeon follows his predecessor’s footsteps directly to the killer’s door. What he discovers is a mysterious Frenchman from Montreal who has murdered at will for over forty years When the FBI gets involved, a pitched battle during the middle of a black night produces results. Government agents are able to capture the illusive Frenchman with Giddeon’s help. The incarceration is short-lived though. The killer escapes after a few short months of custody and goes after the people responsible for his brief downfall. Forced by the government to take a back seat in the investigation, Giddeon and his associates withdraw. But, the killer has other plans for their retirement – and it is deadly.
About the Author
Conrad Bailey is sixty-seven years of age and married forty-six years with three children and four grandchildren. He was discharged honorably from the Air Force in 1955. With Korean War veteran rights, he tried several OJT projects that failed. Hired by Owens-Illinois Glass Co. in 1957, he spent thirty-five years on the payroll. During that period, courtesy of the company, he went to school at Atlanta Tech, (’73-’76). He retired as a journeyman in 1992, and began writing in 1993 as a hobby. He took a self-study course in grammar in 1994, and began taking writing seriously in 1995. He is still writing at his northwest Georgia home where he resides with his wife.