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Gator’s Bite

On a sweltering September night thirty-one years ago as a thunderstorm rolled across the bayou, I arrived screaming into this world on an old blue tarp spread across the kitchen floor of a double-wide trailer at the edge of the gator infested water. Mama was a high school dropout who tended bar at a shithole dive just outside the city limits next to the interstate. I never knew my daddy, or even who he was. I’m not sure my mama did either. Could’ve been one of the fishermen who stopped in for a cold one after running their trotlines or a long haul trucker who wanted some company after hundreds of lonely miles on the road. Opening beer bottles didn’t pay much. Opening her legs did.

Someone Mama met at the bar helped deliver me. I think she told me her name was Mavis or Martha or something like that. Whoever it was asked Mama what my name was. She said, ‘I dunno.’

‘You gotta call her something.’

‘Ida then. What difference does it make? I don’t even want her. Hand me my cigarettes.’

Growing up, I wanted to be like all the other girls. The Bethanys and Tiffanys and all the ones with popular names and pretty faces and perfect hair that all the boys liked. But I was short, my teeth crooked, and my left foot turned in sideways. Then there’s my name—Ida Norwood. All the kids called me Ima Nogood. I guess after hearing it all my life, not having friends, I figured it must be true.

‘Ida, don’t you be going down there to the bayou with them other kids. You can’t run like they do.’ Mama would yell out the screen door when she stuck her head out to smoke.

‘I ain’t afraid of the gators, Mama.’ I would stomp my good foot, balanced on a stick I found out in the woods that worked for a cane. Mama never had the money to get me a real cane to help with my walking, let alone the surgery that would’ve fixed my clubbed foot.

She sucked in a lungful of nicotine and slowly blew the smoke out of the corner of her mouth. ‘It ain’t the gators you gotta be afraid of, little one.’ She flicked her cigarette butt into the pile in the yard. Maybe she had the money for a cane but she spent it on cigarettes instead.

Her words still echoed in my head twenty years later as I stepped out of my SUV. My glasses fogged up in the sultry night air of the bayou. Red and blue lights from all the emergency vehicles on site strobed across the murky water. Crime scene tape wound around some old pilings by the pier the Henderson brothers took out last year when they ran their bass boat up under it. We still haven’t found all of Jesse. Gators probably did.

‘Evening, ma’am.’ One of the uniforms tipped his cap.

‘Hey, Darryl. How bad’s this one?’

‘Worse than the others. This’s one sick bastard.’ He gazed at the water’s edge where forensic techs buzzed like dragonflies around the scene.

I knew what I would find down there. Over the last two months, someone had brutally murdered five of the seven cheerleaders from the Class of 2012 varsity squad. This would be one of the remaining two, stripped naked with pair of blue and gold pom-poms in her hands and her legs broken into a gruesome death split. Was it Ashley or Taylor? It would be hard to tell without DNA analysis since whichever one it was wouldn’t have a face left.

Darryl sucked his teeth. ‘Hard to say. Not much left above her neck. We’re getting pictures and ME’s on the way. The guy over there in the fishing vest called it in.’

The body was propped against one of the pilings in the killer’s signature pose. Naked, splits, pom-poms. Blonde hair matted with blood. I ran a hand through my mop of baby-shit brown hair and glanced out at the three pair of hungry red eyes glowing in the water. If that fisherman hadn’t come by, the gators would’ve drug her off.

I did my usual slow walk around the scene, studying the surrounding area then focusing on the body. Bracing on my cane, I squatted close to the victim. All five previous victims were killed the same way—blunt force trauma to the head—and their bodies displayed publicly by the bayou.

‘Looks like our same killer.’ Darryl sidled up next to me, drinking from a plastic water bottle. He handed me one.

I twisted off the top and guzzled half of it. Typical steamy summer evening. Sweat beaded on my upper lip.

‘I agree. Same M.O. Same everything. Anything else stand out?’

Darryl shook his head. ‘Nope. Damn shame someone doing this to all these women.’

My sweaty palms slipped on my cane and I stumbled, sinking ankle deep in the mud. Darryl grabbed my arm and pulled me up onto dryer ground.

‘You okay there, ma’am? That was almost a nasty fall.’

I jerked my arm away. ‘I’m fine.’ I shouldn’t be angry at Darryl. He’s a good man and was only trying to help, but I don’t need anyone’s pity. ‘Thanks.’

‘Sure thing. Did you still want to talk to that guy who found her?’

‘Can you interview him for me? I’m going to head home and clean this mud off before it dries. You know what to do.’ I paused then gave him a tight-lipped smile.

‘Got it. I’ll send you the results.’

I waved over my shoulder and limped to my SUV. I opened the door and gazed back down at the scene before climbing in and starting the engine. I ran my fingers over the custom-made iron handle of my cane that resembled a ball peen hammer. I smiled at my reflection in the rear-view mirror.

Six down, one to go.

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Award winning author* Tammy Blakley lives in the Pacific Northwest where she spends her days writing mysteries or staring out the window at her gorgeous view of Mt. Baker. She completed her first manuscript with no formal training and a total lack of adult supervision. She enjoys the support of her amazing husband who, so far, hasn’t recommended medication. She has previously published stories in Punk Noir Magazine, Urban Pigs Magazine, and  Stone’s Throw. Find her on Twitter @tammy_blakley and Bluesky @tammywritesbooks.bsky.social

* She won Most Improved Bowler on her office bowling team and in 6th grade she won the 4-H Biscuit Baking Competition and a 5 pound bag of flour. She still has the bowling patch but unfortunately the flour was lost in the Great Weevil Invasion of ‘74.

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‘Gator’s Bite’ is the seventh featured piece in the Urban Pigs Press CASTAWAYS callout, which celebrates the release of the latest Urban Pigs title Robinson Crusoe Maybe by guest editor Colin Gee. Colin is founder and editor of The Gorko Gazette and author of several books.