The Beast of 1977 (Book 1)

Chapter 1: Foreword

Circa 1977, twas a year I recall...with a lovely fondness.

The Unknown...

Foreword

November, 26th 1976 All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

"Don't forget the man's arm. It's lying over there."

Detective Wilson pointed while surveying the living room from a distant corner with a queasy appearance attached to his dark, middle-aged face.

Wrapped in his black London Fog winter coat, the stocky Wilson meticulously scratched his heavy mustache as though he were entangled in some sort of deep thought.The mangled and tattered front door was still hanging wide open to allow his fellow officers to enter and exit at will.

The bitter cold morning wind swept its way into the foul smelling house where four motionless bodies laid on the floor.Some officers, as they entered, would pause to watch the detective stand in his safe corner as though he were trying to avoid work.

Truth be told, it was the ungodly stench of the house that kept the veteran lawman in place. The odor was that of both bloody bodies and marijuana hanging profusely in the air.From left to right on the carpeted floor laid a menagerie of carnage. Three horribly mutilated black males and their appendages and intestines strewn all over the floor, and one other person, who appeared to still be intact, sprawled out in all his skinny nakedness.

Wilson watched in somber angst as the coroners lifted arms, severed heads and legs into black Hefty bags as though they were scooping up leaves from off the ground.

"Hey, Wilson," a young, white police officer called out from the front door. "The captain wants an update on the situation!"

Detective Wilson slightly shifted his eyes away from the macabre scene on the floor to look at the officer as he approached him.

"Situation," Wilson questioned with a grunt in his dry throat. "Tell 'em to come down here. I've got a situation for him."

The young officer stepped up beside the detective and peered down at the floor where Wilson was staring. From where Wilson was standing it was hard for his eyes to take in everything all at once. So much blood and mayhem contained in one area. The smell was overwhelming to the degree that his breathing had become stifled.

"Have you ever seen anything like this before, Detective?"

Wilson rolled his eyes in agitation before saying, "Dawson, why do you even ask such a question?"

Dawson sucked in his gut and modestly asked, "Just what exactly do you think did this?"

Gingerly, Wilson turned his pudgy body around to a destroyed closet door and said, "Well, it looks as though our Jamaican friends that were all over the floor a while ago may have had some kind of animal locked up in this here closet. It must've got out and tore the poor bastards apart."

"Poor," Dawson asked with a grimace. "Detective, look at the table, it's lined with coke and pot. It looks to me like these guys had it coming to them."

"Perhaps," Wilson shrugged while still examining the closet door.

"And what about this one," Dawson pointed down where the naked man was lying. "There's not a scratch on him."

Wilson reached into the closet and picked up a pair of torn Levi blue jeans that was lying on the floor. He then dug into the back pocket and pulled out a wallet.

Wilson gazed at the photo on the driver's license and said, "That looks like him, alright."

"But what about his face," Dawson inquired. "Looks like he was beaten up."

Wilson knelt down to view the young black man's swollen features. "Not a single scratch on him. How then did his clothes end up in that closet? Was he locked in there along with the animal?" Wilson irritably grumbled.

Dawson took his flashlight from out of his holster and inspected the closet even closer. He saw nothing but jackets, shoeboxes and shards of long, black hair that was layered all over the floor.

"Detective, take a look at this."

Wilson stood back up and stepped over to where Dawson was standing. "What is it, son?"

"This." Dawson pointed as he stooped down to pick up the thick fuzz."

"What is it, a dust bunny?"

"I'm afraid not, Detective. It looks like fur."

"Fur from what, for God's sake?"

"It's hard to say, given what it did to these fellows."

"Could it be a black bear?"

"In these parts, sir," Dawson smugly replied. "It's highly unlikely."

"Don't stand there and beat around the bush, boy. It is likely that a bear, or something like a bear, got into this house, killed the three men and then escaped out the front door. And if it's escaped this house, then this city has a helluva problem on its hands; something a whole lot worse than some kidnapper."

"It was strong enough to tear a hole not only through the closet door, but also the front door as well." Dawson added. "But, Detective, I can assure you that this was no bear."

"How can you be sure of that?"

"Look at the size of the closet. It's the same size as my mother's linen closet. It's impossible that a full grown bear could fit inside there."

"But a full grown bear could eat three full grown men up like appetizers."

"It's a possibility, but judging from the bullet holes in the walls, it seemed as if the guys were able to pull off a few rounds before meeting their maker. Those guns on the floor are nine millimeters; three men with three guns weren't able to take down a full grown bear."

"Wait a minute." Wilson inhaled. "I'm guessing that those voodoo motherfuckers probably stole a bear from the zoo, brought it home and the damn thing went crazy and killed them. Hell, if an animal is mad enough it could withstand a shotgun blast. Who knows what went on in here last night? For all we know, they could have fed the bear some of that coke before it went on its rampage. These Jamaicans are half out of their mind anyways."

"You can say that again."

"Take that fur down to the station and give it to forensics. We'll see what they come up with."

"Forensics," Dawson griped. "I hate going down to the basement to see those guys. They talk your ear off."

"What are you complaining about? You don't have to fill out the paperwork on this mess." Wilson offhandedly replied while holding in a hearty belch that was trying to bring up his wife's macaroni and cheese from the Thanksgiving feast from the night before.

"Well, at least that poor guy is still alive." Dawson commented as he and Wilson watched the paramedics lift the naked man onto a gurney.

"Alive...and still in one piece," Wilson said. "Helluva way to spend the holidays."

"Just what are you going to tell the captain when you speak to him, sir?"

Wilson glanced over at the curious young man, and with a glare of conceit in his eyes, he confidently exclaimed, "Are you kidding? It won't matter what I say to the old man. When I get home tonight, my wife and I are gonna plan our vacation to Hawaii. I'd like to see him stop that."

As both men began for the disheveled front door, Wilson couldn't help but to pause and look back once more at the gory sight that was once a living room. Blood plastered all over the carpet, walls and the dining table. It all appeared as though someone had gone crazy and splashed red paint everywhere in reckless abandon.

"Happy Thanksgiving, fellas," Wilson haplessly stated before exiting the home.