Author: Richard L. Fricks

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

After work, I drove straight to Oak Hollow and went inside the house.  Since purchasing the Black’s property three years ago I had converted the house into an extension of my law office.  I often came here to conduct legal research and draft briefs for my appeals cases.  I also used one bedroom for my writing.  A few years ago, I had started writing short stories.  My ideas had mainly come from the criminal defendants I had represented.

Today, I changed clothes and sat at the kitchen table reviewing the mental plan I had prepared several weeks ago.  I had named it ‘the Kill.’  I had long determined that no matter what John’s family did after receiving my ransom note, that John would die.  That was the only true justice for what he had done.  I never promised his family they would ever see him again. 

Several months ago, I had rented a backhoe and brought it here to Oak Hollow.  I had used it to dig five graves.  They were at the back of the several acres the Black’s had cleared off, about 200 yards behind the barn.  This clearing is also fenced in.  I had bought five old horses and brought them here.  Today, two old horses would die, with one of them being the human kind.

I walked outside and to the barn and found John laying on the floor on his back.  I told him to roll over and to put his hands behind him. I unlocked the cell door and went in, cuffed his hands behind him and removed the shackle from his left hand.  I had him stand up. 

John kept saying that I was in more trouble than I could ever escape.  I just let him talk while I led him outside and down to the back of the clearing. I took one of the horses by its halter.  We walked behind John.  I had him open the gate.  The five graves were right beyond the fence.  When John saw the five holes in the ground he fell to his knees and said, “Micaden, you don’t have to do this.  It’s not too late.  I will pay you whatever you want and will never mention this ever.  Please, please don’t kill me.”

 I walked the old mare over beside the first grave and injected her with 50 mg of Diazepam as a sedative.  In less than five minutes she was laying down on her side.  I then injected her with 120 ccs sodium pentobarbital.  Within a couple more minutes, the old mare stopped breathing.  I had John lay down on his stomach, face down.

The shovel I had chosen was heavy with a long handle.  John kept trying to get up and I kept shoving him back down.  The first blow missed his head completely, hitting his neck below his left ear.  John rolled over screaming.  “God help me, Tanner please stop.”  The second blow was direct.  It centered the back side of his head. He rolled on to his left side.   I hit him again, this time across the face.  Blood began pouring from his nose and mouth.  It took five more blows before he died.

I removed the hand cuffs and pushed him into the first grave.  I used the shovel to cover his body with three or four feet of dirt.  I then used a come-a-long to pull the horse into the grave.  It took me over an hour to shovel in enough dirt to fill the ten-foot hole.

I walked back to the barn and hung up John’s cuffs.  After showering in the house, I drove home to Hickory Hollow.  Karla had my favorite meal.  Slow-cooked pintos and fried potatoes.  We spent the rest of the evening playing checkers with four-year-old Kaden.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

The next day I arrived at the office early and before anyone else.  I prepared a typed ransom note.  It read:

“John has been kidnapped.  For now, he is safe and sound.  The amount of fear and pain he suffers is up to you.  You can positively affect his situation by doing the following three things:

1.  Before Thursday, May 18, 2017, deliver $100,000 to Jesse Dawson, the girl John repeatedly raped when she was in the 9th grade at Boaz High School.  Jesse, now Jesse Rickles, lives at 3855 County Road 35, Rainsville, AL.  Be sure and take a photo of the certified check with it being hand-delivered to Ms. Rickles.  Post these two photos to John’s Facebook account before the 18th.

2. Before Sunday, May 21, 2017 draft a letter of apology from John to Wendi and Cindi Murray and their parents Bill and Nellie Murray.  Include details of what John did to harm this family beginning with the rapes and murders of Wendi and Cindi on May 25, 1972.  Deliver this letter to Pastor Walter Tillman and ask that it be read to the congregation of First Baptist Church of Christ on the 21st.

3. Before Tuesday, May 23, 2017, wire transfer $2,000,000 to Fidelity Bank Limited in Grand Cayman, Cayman Islands.  This bank’s physical address is: Cayman Financial Centre, 36A Dr. Roy’s Drive, Grand Cayman, KYI-1103, Cayman Islands.  The bank’s Routing Number is 063012136.  You are to have these funds deposited to Account Number is 90003070.

Of course, you can involve family, friends, police and other authorities.  That is up to you.  You are bright enough to realize such involvement might not be in John’s best interest.”

I put on tight latex gloves, printed out the two letters, and addressed two envelopes.  One to John’s wife Judith, and the other one to Franklin, his father.  I folded and inserted the letters into the envelopes and sealed them using an Aqua Ball to moisten the flap.  I almost licked a stamp before realizing what I was about to do.  I threw that one away and then affixed two stamps, again using the Aqua Ball.  I then inserted these two envelopes into one manila folder and drove to the Gadsden Post Office.  With gloveless hands, I carried the folder inside and let the two smaller envelopes slide into the outgoing mail chute being careful not to touch them.

I drove back to the law office.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

Matt’s auto accident was worse than originally thought.  He spent three days in the hospital and almost three weeks at home in bed.  The doctor said he had suffered extreme brain trauma and risked convulsion and a stroke if he exerted himself.

I covered both mine and Matt’s cases having court appearances nearly every day.  But, I still found time to conduct detailed planning on how I would abduct John Ericson.  I had decided against simply killing him.  That would be too easy and wouldn’t accomplish enough.  I didn’t mind the easy part but I had previously decided that my form of justice would be a combination of civil and criminal justice.  Each of the Flaming Five would pay money for the evil they had committed and they also would pay with their lives.  I doubt any reasonable person would argue this wasn’t what they each deserved.

Four weeks to the day after Career Day, and its vivid reminder of what John Ericson and family had done to Jesse Dawson and her family, I was ready for game one.  I left the office at 5:00 p.m., drove home, and ate supper with Karla and Kaden.  After eating, I told them I had a brief to complete and went to my study.  It was on the back of the house next to the master bedroom where I slept.  Karla and I had not slept together in years.  She blamed it on my snoring.  She now had her own bedroom upstairs in what used to be the loft.  I changed clothes and walked back through the study and out onto my balcony.  By now it was dark.  I walked through the back yard and the 300 or so yards to the barn.  There I backed my 2007, F150 Ford pickup out and loaded my bicycle in the back under the camper shell.

I drove back to the office, parked, and went inside long enough to turn on all the lights.  I then came back out, removed my bicycle, and rode up Main Street, crossing Highway 205. I had twenty minutes or so to kill so I rode past Snead College, the Boaz Rec Center, Corley Elementary School and then circled back toward First Baptist Church of Christ.  I crossed back over Highway 205 and turned left on Brown Street and then right on Sparks.  A block before reaching the church I pulled into the driveway of an abandoned house on the corner of Sparks and Elm Streets.  I hid my bike behind the house under an old tarp that had been left by the previous owners to cover two lidless garbage cans. 

I walked across Elm and through a grove of trees and an assortment of picnic tables and benches that were used mainly by church employees during their lunch hour.  John’s car was parked where it always was on Monday nights, in the parking lot on the west side of the Family Life Center, in parking spot number 275, facing Gethsemane, the informal name that had been assigned to the grove of trees I had just passed through.  And John, I had to assume, was where he always was on Monday nights, inside teaching and coaching the Upward Bound Basketball and Bible program.  I squatted down beside the passenger side door.  It was now 8:55 p.m. and there were no other cars in the parking lot. 

For the past three weeks, I had made this same little biking journey and hid in Gethsemane.  Each week had been almost an exact replica, the only thing that varied was the time John walked out of the west side door of the Center and approached his 2017 Chevrolet Traverse.  The earliest time had been 9:02 p.m., and the latest had been 9:06 p.m.  The kids and the other workers were always gone at the latest by 8:45 p.m.

Tonight at 9:05 p.m., I heard John rattling the Center’s door making sure it was locked.  I could hear his footsteps as he approached his vehicle. It was roughly forty feet from the Center’s door to the driver’s side door on John’s Traverse.  I started inching my way toward the back of his vehicle.  When I heard the beep of his automatic door opener I readied myself at the back corner. I counted ‘one thousand one, one thousand two.’  I knew it took John two seconds after sounding the beep to reach his vehicle and open the back door.  My entire plan could go south in a hurry if John didn’t follow his routine.  He always opened the back door and threw his duffel bag inside onto the bench seat.  If he had opened the front door and sit down in the bucket seat, my job would be much more difficult, if not impossible.  He followed his routine and opened the back door. 

Just as I heard him pull on the door handle I looked around the bumper on the driver’s side and saw him tossing in his duffel bag.  I rushed toward him making far more noise than I had intended but reached him as he was turning towards me.  Our eyes locked together as I lunged the taser in my right hand into the left side of his chest.  He fell back against the open door without saying a word. 

I had not anticipated the level of difficulty it would be to get John’s body inside his vehicle.  Even though John was tall and slim, he probably only weighed 160 to 170 pounds.  It took me three attempts to pick up his lifeless body and lean him back against the bench seat.  Every time I tried to prop him up his feet kept slipping and he collapsed.  I finally figured out that if I turned him face-forward toward the seat that his center of gravity shifted upwards enough for him to lay across the seat.  I then went around to the other side and could pull him completely inside.  I had to go back around and bend his legs upward to close the door. 

I panicked when I could not find John’s keys.  After crawling in the back seat and checking his pockets I realized he probably dropped them when I tasered him.  I got outside and down on all fours and found John’s keys up under the Traverse.  I opened the driver’s door and jumped inside.  The vehicle had been running ever since John had used his automatic door opener.  I backed up and started toward the west side parking lot and onto Elm Street when I remembered that I had forgotten to handcuff John’s hands.  I quickly stopped the vehicle, got out, walked around the Traverse, opened the back door, and pulled his arms and hands from underneath his body and behind his back.  The cuffs finally snapped shut.  I looked at my watch.  It was 9:14 p.m.  It had taken six minutes more than I had planned.  I was soaking wet from sweat and it was still pouring off my face and head.  I got back behind the wheel and drove north on Elm Street.  Only then did I remove my black hood.

It was twenty minutes before I pulled up beside the barn.  This wasn’t my barn at Hickory Hollow.  That would have been way too risky.  I could not have prevented Karla and Kaden from discovering how the Flaming Five were finally receiving their justice.  Three years ago, I had purchased the south eighty acres from the Black’s.  I had bought it from their son Andrew.  When I first purchased their north 100 acres and named it Hickory Hollow, I had asked them for a right of first refusal on their south 80.  They had agreed and I had made sure that Andrew, who lived in Jackson, Mississippi, knew about it.  Betty Black had died in 2002 and Carl in 2013.  Andrew settled the estate and, good to his word, contacted me asking whether I still wanted to buy the remaining 80 acres.  I didn’t really need it, nor have any plans for it but bought it none the same.

Oak Hollow, the name I had coined for the Black’s south 80 acres, was located on Dogwood Trail, just beyond where Leeth Gap Road begins. The northeast corner of Oak Hollow is at the dead-end of Dogwood Trail. There are only four houses on this road.  The Black’s had installed a chain gate swung from two metal poles, one on each side of the road.  Andrew had given me a key to the lock.  The Black’s simple one-story brick home was a hundred yards or so inside the gate.  Another three hundred yards deeper into the woods the Black’s had cleared off a few acres and built a barn.  I had made a lot of changes to the barn since purchasing the south 80 in 2015.  It was this barn that I now sat beside in John’s Traverse with him groaning and lying across the back seat.

I got out and flipped on two light switches that I had installed on the outer wall inside a weather proof cover.  One switch was an outside LED flood light at the top of the roof under the eve and just above the loft door.  The other switch turned on a row of lights down the center of the barn’s open hallway.  I had parked the Traverse perpendicular to the barn’s hallway.  I opened the vehicle’s back door on the driver’s side and told John to get out.  By now he was awaking, but not yet fully alert.  He moaned and I told him, “John Ericson, this is Micaden Tanner, and you have been convicted of rape and murder and sentenced to die.  Now get out of my police car.” 

I knew he couldn’t easily get out of the vehicle, not with him lying on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back.  I just wanted to be dramatic.  I had rehearsed over and over the past three weeks what I wanted to say when we arrived at Oak Hollow Prison. 

I took John’s ankles in my hands and started pulling him off the backseat.  When his feet were on the ground I grabbed his shirt at his shoulders with both hands and stood him upright.  He turned and looked at me with a mix of fear and disgust and said, “Tanner, what the hell are you doing?  Uncuff me right now or your ass is dead.”

I replied, “John I don’t think you are in any position to be making such bold demands.”  I pushed John further inside the barn’s hallway and inside a stall halfway down on the right side.  I made him sit down on a metal stool that was in the center of the room and secured to the cement floor.  I then used an extra pair of cuffs to connect his right hand to the stool and removed the first cuffs.  I then had him stand which allowed him to bring his arms and hands around in front of him.  When he stood up he thrust out his left hand towards me to punch my face.  I blocked his punch and told him, “I figured you would try that.  Now, you can do one of two things.  Either you let me put a shackle on your left hand which is attached to this stool and with its chain give you six feet of roaming freedom, or I will leave you just the way you are with your right-hand close-cuffed to the stool.”

John reached out his left hand and I put on the shackle that was lying on the floor next to the stool.  I had previously secured the chain to the stool.  I stepped back toward the jail cell type door that I had built and John let out the shrillest scream I had ever heard.  I turned and smiled at him.

“John, you can shout, holler, or scream as loud and as often as you want.  You are at least a mile from anyone, and in between you and the first household, are a million oak and hickory trees to resist your sound waves.  It’s up to you.”

“Tanner, okay, I get it.  But, be sensible.  Let’s make a deal.  I suspect I know what this is all about.  What will satisfy you?  What about a million dollars?”  John said.

“I appreciate your offer.  That’s about half of what I was thinking.  Two million dollars will be what I demand from your family.  Do you think you are worth that?  Will they pay that?”  I asked.

“Unshackle me right now and we can deal with this tonight.”

“Oh, my funny John.  Don’t you realize that you will never see your family again?”  With that I walked out and locked the cell’s door.  I looked back at John and told him there was water and bread within reach behind him on a table, and under the table was a pillow and a blanket.  “There’s a five-gallon bucket in the opposite corner for your creative uses.”  I couldn’t resist saying as I looked at John’s eyes.  I think he was about to cry. 

I walked across the hallway to a supply room and took a bottle of Lysol Spray and a clean towel.  For the next fifteen minutes, I scrubbed down the inside of John’s Traverse.  Even though I had used gloves I wanted to make sure there was nothing suspicious left in the vehicle.  When I finished, I drove back to the Family Life Center and parked in spot 275.  I got out, locked up, and walked through Gethsemane across Elm and retrieved my bike from under the blue tarp at the abandoned house.  In less than five minutes I was back at the law office and the bike was in the back of my truck locked inside my camper top.  I went inside and turned off all the lights and drove home.  It was after 11:00 p.m. when I walked across my balcony, back through the study, and into my bedroom.

After taking a shower, I lay down across my bed but tossed and turned for at least an hour.  I guess it was only natural to replay tonight’s events over and over in my mind.  Once I finally dozed off, I slept sound the rest of the night.