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Tiny Dancer

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Author's note: This pasta was origionally written for -TheRuckus-'s blog post: Writing Pastas With Song Titles

This WAS A REAL CASE.  I just altered the names, locations and times for the protection of the victim and myself.  I can write about it as long as I alter the said aspects.  It's a scary thing to know that this kind of horror exists.... and right under our noses as that.

You never know when the next storm in life will hit and play 52-pickup with your world. 3.5 years ago, I served as a homicide investigator. When our daughter passed away, I decided that I had seen enough death and ugliness for one lifetime. No more shootings, stabbings, rapes, decapitations. I quit the force and decided to get a job where I could spend more time at home with my family. Which is ironic being that now, I work two jobs to make ends-meet and work days, nights and weekends. However during my time as a cop, I witnessed some pretty awful things. Things that would make your toes curl.

When your child dies in your arms, it changes you. You are never the same afterward, regardless of what you have seen or lived through prior. However, always in the recesses of my mind there is one case in particular that haunts me. I tell you, the horrors human beings are capable of is just… beyond comprehension. This world is truly sick. Which is why it’s so important to keep that light inside, that spark that keeps you going. I lost it for a while and thought I’d never find it again.

It was around five years ago. I was thirty-four at the time and had been an investigator in the Sex Crimes Unit for about two years before transferring to Homicide. I handled cases involving victims of all ages: Women, men, children… I’ve seen and heard things that I can never forget, no matter how hard I try to. The sad thing is, these crimes have always happened and always will, even long after we’re all dead and buried.

One night I responded to a call involving the sexual assault of a woman in her late 20’s. She had been shopping alone at a local grocery store late that night. She was just a normal woman trying to survive in this world, like everyone else. She was en route to her car, pushing her basket of groceries she needed for the week. A dark blue van pulls up, three men get out, grab her and throw her in. They drive to a remote area about four miles away where they proceed to violently assault her. After the assault, they drive her back to the grocery store parking lot and push her out of the van and flee the scene. A customer walking out witnessed this and reported it to the store manager. Then we were called in.

While at the hospital, I conducted the routine questioning of the victim. This young woman (we’ll call her Jane Doe) began to answer my questions like she had done this before. She wasn’t upset like most other assault victims are when they go through such a terrible ordeal. In fact, she was calm. Almost as if this were a regular occurrence for her. There was something strange and very unnerving about this. Not once had I ever encountered an individual who was so calm and accepting of their ordeal. One of my questions was “Do you know the individuals who assaulted you?”

She looked up at me momentarily and said “Not exactly. But they work for people I do know, or knew a long time ago.”

I knew Jane had quite the story to tell, if I could just get her to open up about it.

She said “Not here, they might be around listening. You probably think I’m crazy but trust me. I’ll tell you somewhere in private. I’ll tell you everything.”

This was an odd request especially in the manor and tone she used. However, my job entailed solving these difficult cases and sometimes it meant dealing with a few eccentricities. She had just been through something very traumatic and I wanted to get these scumbags off the streets. After the doctor and nurse finished up the rape kit and I got their statements regarding their immediate findings, I would drive her back to the station. She was prepared to give her statement.

I allowed her to sit in the back seat of my car so she would have her own space and wouldn’t feel threatened. The car ride was quiet. At one point she asked “Can you turn on the radio?”

“Really?” I asked, surprised at her request.

“Yeah music helps,” she said looking out of the rear driver-side window.

I pressed the power button on the stereo. The first notes of Elton Johns “Tiny Dancer” played softly over the speakers. Then Sir Elton’s voice carried on in his sing-song tone. His music could put anyone in a good mood.

“Blue Jean baby, L.A. lady

Seamstress for the band

Pretty eyed, pirate smile

You’ll marry a music man”

“How’s that?” I asked, looking at her in the rear view mirror.

“That’s good. I like this song,” she said as she closed her eyes. She was covering herself in a blanket I kept in the trunk for individuals who were in shock. Mostly though, I used it for those who had fallen victim to sexual assault.

Yes, it was clean. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking at the moment. Whatever it was, it seemed to soothe her and make her happy. I could swear I saw a slight smile on her face throughout the song. Regardless, I was glad it was of some comfort to her. Why was she so calm and accepting? How could she be smiling at anything after what she went through? Something was off. It really began to make me feel uneasy. Then she surprised the hell out of me…… She made me laugh. As Elton finally approached the chorus she added her own words…

“Hold me closer Tony Danza.”

I actually belted out a laugh. I couldn’t believe it. It was as if she could sense my uneasiness and attempted to flip a switch in my brain to happy mode. Needless to say, I was a bit embarrassed for my outburst. I didn’t know what to say exactly, so I just apologized “Sorry.”

4:36am

Everything nowadays is recorded so, I sat her in front of a camera (she did so of her own free will) and asked her to state her name, age and place of residency. Again, I will not divulge any true personal information about her (For her and my protection). We proceeded with the questioning.

Me: My name is Detective Eric Jameson. I’m the investigator in charge of this case. The date and time is 4:36am. Ok M’am, if you would look into the camera and state your name, age and place of residence for the record.

Jane: My name is Jane Doe, I’m twenty-eight years old. I live at 125 Boone Lane.

Me: Ok Ms. Doe, anytime you’re ready to begin.

Jane: Ok. I grew up in the town of Johaniss, Texas. My parents were wealthy ministers of their church. I uh… I just don’t know exactly where to begin. There’s just so much to tell.

Me: Earlier you mentioned that the individuals who assaulted you worked for someone you knew. Let’s start there.

Jane: Yeah. It sorta starts there. See, my parents were leaders of a Satanic Cult. The Order of the Southern Star. Their names are Jack Doe and Janna Doe. My life with them wasn’t all shopping with mom and quality time with daddy. I was kept isolated from the world, protected. I wasn’t allowed to go out, didn’t have friends, I never even got to speak or see anyone outside of my family and the church. When I turned fifteen, that’s when it got really bad.

I had never heard of snuff films before. My job was to lure people to a remote location to be either sold into sex slavery or to be used for these snuff films. This isn’t something I wanted to do. I was forced to. I was threatened with rape and death myself. Yes, my own parents were the ones threatening me. I lured other teens, kids, men, women… but the highest demand was for kids. I didn’t witness what they did to them. However I know where they would take the bodies after they were all used up and finally killed.

Me: Ms. Doe, what you are saying is something very serious. Can you provide proof of these claims? Are you prepared to testify against your parents or any others tied to this case?

Jane: Yes I will testify. They will still get me but my parents have to pay for this. I can take you to where they buried all the bodies.

Me: Really? Where did they bury them?

Jane: At St. Francis cemetery in Johaniss, Texas. You see, every time they needed to get rid of somebody, they would go to the cemetery and look for a freshly dug grave where someone would be buried the next day at a funeral. They would dig deeper, maybe about three to four feet and bury the body, covering it back up. The next day, the real person being buried in their casket would be lowered on top and covered. Nobody would ever know. That cemetery is full of bodies! Children, women, some men. But mostly children. Somewhere near forty, at least when I was there.

Me: Ms. Doe, those are some serious accusations.

Jane: Yes I know. But it’s all true.

Me: Ok, continue if you would.

Jane: I tried to leave several times. I knew what they were doing was wrong. I couldn’t live with it anymore. I wanted to get away. I wanted to live a normal life. The first time I escaped, my parents sent some of the church members to find me and rape me. This was to teach me a lesson… Don’t try to escape. The second time I tried to escape, I was raped again and kept in a cage for a month. Still I wanted out. One night, I managed to run out of the door when I lured a young man back to a motel room to be drugged and used in a snuff film. They had planned to rape him and slit his throat on camera. These types of films were in high demand at the time. As they carried him into the bathroom and began to do what they intended, I had a chance to escape. They left me alone for just a few seconds but it was my chance to escape. I looked at the door as I began to hear the young man scream. There was nothing I could do to help him. I had to run. I opened and closed the door quietly behind me and ran. My heart was beating so hard and I was shaking I remember. I ran into the street and flagged down as many cars as I could. A lady stopped and I asked her to help me. I was crying, shaking, just a mess. She told me to get in. She said she would take me to the police and I said no since my parents were close to the police there. I thought they would just return me to them.

Me: Were any of the police part of the church?

Jane: Yes, two. The chief and the assistant chief. They would have just returned me to them and I couldn’t go back.

Me: Jane, you’re telling me that the chief and assistant chief of the Johaniss police department are Satanists? And they know about all of the activities you’re describing to me?

Jane: Yes.

Me: Tell me their names please.

Jane: Chief Walter James and assistant chief Donnie Griswald.

Me: Ok. Thank you Jane. But this brings us now to the events of last night. You mentioned the assailants work for them?

Jane: Yes. This isn’t the first time this has happened. They find me every now and then. I never know when... but it happens even to this day. More than ten years after I escaped and they are telling me “We know where you are. We can still get to you. Don’t ever talk about us.” But I refuse to live in fear. They won’t break me. Not as long as I’m alive.

When she said that, I tried to keep that memory for when I needed a bit of a pep talk about hanging in there when things got tough. In a way, I admired her for her spirit. She was indeed a survivor.

The department set up a task force to secretly go into the town with Jane and myself and go back to the cemetery. Sadly, when we got there, a shopping strip mall had been built over it. There was no way to find the missing people Jane had claimed were buried within. It was as if the cemetery never existed. She figured they must have bought the cemetery and built the mall over it. So many years had passed people forgot about the big uproar. They were outraged when they learned of the plans to move the dead to another burial site free of charge. It went through. Jane said that they must have infiltrated the city council somehow. The Order of the Southern Star had its hands in everything it seemed. Without any evidence, we could not convict anyone involved. Jane’s claims were dismissed and the case dropped.

Eventually, Jane got married and had a child of her own. They moved to some city in another state. I still wonder if they found her. If they still get to her from time to time. Or if they ever got to her husband or child. I’ll never know. What she taught me was that you might lose that spark for a little while but you can always find it again. In the things and people you love. Even a song.



Written by Blacknumber1
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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