Dance of Death Read Free Page A

for help, the robbery and the shooting on the beach that had just occurred within a few blocks from them at Eighty-first Avenue North.
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    Twenty-three-year-old patrol officer Scott Brown had been assigned to the special unit of the Myrtle Beach Police Department (MBPD) officers that patrolled the beaches. Trained in both first aid and lifesaving procedures, this young and athletic officer seemed well-suited for the job. Brown was well-liked and respected by those who frequented in and around the beach.
    At approximately 11:30 P.M ., that Tuesday, Officer Brown had been policing the north end of Myrtle Beach, just past Eighty-first Avenue North. As he continued cruising northward, he saw a Caucasian female dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans who was coming out of his headlights and over to the driver’s side of his truck. She was not running and did not seem to be in a hurry, just advancing toward him at somewhat of a meandering pace. Even though she was the only person he saw in this area, he didn’t pay any particular attention to her. To him, she was just another beach walker.
    As Brown drove closer, he wasn’t sure if she was walking toward or away from him. He looked around to see if there was someone else behind him, but didn’t see anyone. It was very common for beach walkers to lose their sense of direction, then stop him and ask for guidance or instructions.
    It had been a little breezy on the beach that night, and because of that, both of the windows in Brown’s truck were up. Just as his vehicle approached the girl, she crossed the headlights onto the driver’s side, and showed just enough of a wave to get his attention.
    She is going to ask me a question, Brown thought as he rolled his window down. He stopped in front of the attractive, dark-haired girl and stared at her. Early twenties. He leaned out the window and made eye contact.
    â€œCan I help you, ma’am?”
    The girl’s hands were cupped and placed over her mouth, as if she were trying to catch her breath. She dropped her hands and calmly said, “Someone just shot my husband.”
    â€œWhat?” he blurted out, not expecting to hear that. Even though there had been a few strong-arm robberies on the beach, where someone had assaulted a tourist and demanded money, he had never heard of anyone being shot.
    â€œSomeone shot my husband,” she repeated again.
    He didn’t know what to think. The girl kept her hands over her mouth and nose and was crying into her hands. She wasn’t screaming or wailing, but had told him she had just witnessed her husband getting shot. He expected her to be upset, maybe even suffering from some type of emotional shock.
    â€œWhere is your husband?” he asked.
    She pointed across the hood of the car and to the right-hand side, where the headlights pierced the breaking ocean waves.
    Brown followed her penciled finger. He was not accustomed to seeing dead bodies lying on the beach at night. This was something of an anomaly—dead birds or dead fish, maybe—but never dead bodies.
    The girl kept pointing toward the ocean. “He’s down there.”
    Brown turned his vehicle in the pointed direction and switched on the takedown lights. The white lights from his truck illuminated the area. He hoped she was making this story up. In his many lone nights on the beach, he’d encountered a number of persons suffering from mind-altered states, usually brought on by the consumption of alcohol or drugs, but none of them had ever claimed to have witnessed a murder. As he edged the truck closer toward the surf, he spotted what appeared to be a body lying in the sand at a distance of some sixty to eighty feet away.
    Brown’s heart skipped a beat. It was pumping adrenaline to his brain like a two-horsepower sump pump. “I am going to be out of my truck,” he radioed the dispatcher, who logged the call in at 11:45 P.M .
    Brown wasn’t sure