Blood Stains in Paradise

a Novel by Paul Foreman

“Blood Stains in Paradise,”

Chronicles the various calls and investigations which Deputy Sheriff Paul Foreman became involved in when he took a leap of faith and went from Florida State Park Ranger to Deputy Sheriff. The challenge, the excitement, and the sheer terror at times, takes its toll on many Law Enforcement Officers. From the corruption and dishonesty of a few deputies to the self sacrifice and even the ultimate sacrifice that some officers gave in the line of duty.  These stories will put your right in the front seat, right alongside Deputy Foreman as he tells the stories of “Blood Stains in Paradise”.

     You will not be embarrassed to share this novel with teens 12 years and older. This novel does contain some graphic descriptions of crime scenes.   It has NO vulgar profanities or sexual content. 



Here is a brief excerpt from a chapter in my first novel,

Blood Stains in Paradise


“Here’s the box cutter he used, here on the dresser,” I said pointing.

“The medics told me they had to take it away from him.” “OK,” Phil

advised, “let’s not move anything else until we get some pictures of

this mess.” Phil went out to his car, while Fred continued to prowl

around the little room. Fred commented to me, “With all this blood

loss, there’s a good chance this guy could go signal 7.” (Signal 7 was

code for dead person) I was looking around too. I had never seen a

crime scene like this one.

Fred continued, “We always treat it like a homicide until we prove

otherwise.” I appreciated the fact they knew I was a rookie, yet they

were explaining things as they went along. My so called training

officers had always been sarcastic as if I was supposed to have already

had all these experiences. “Hey Fred, look at this,” I said pointing to

the top of the dresser. “There is a woman involved in this somewhere.

Here’s all her makeup and stuff.” Phil was walking back in with his

camera and heard what I had just said. “Oh, there’s always a woman

involved in these cases. Here’s the scene. Boy falls in love, girl breaks

up with boy, girl leaves, and boy can’t live without her, boy slashes

wrists to end it all. Case closed!”

“Well you guys are the experts, but if the girl left him, why is all her

stuff still here? Do you mind if I pick up these car keys? I bet they

fit that Camaro out there,” I said waving my hand toward the car backed

up to the motel room door.

“Sure, go ahead,” Phil answered, “see if they fit that car."


I looked at the keys. They were one of the few things

that didn’t seem to have blood on them. I walked outside with the

keys and studied the car. The front windows were down. There was

a lot of beach sand on the carpets. There was a towel draped across

the back of the passenger seat. Another towel was bunched up on the

driver’s seat. I walked back around to the rear. The car had Florida

tags from Gulf County. Not really expecting anything, I picked the

round key that had the GM logo on the head of the key. I opened the

trunk of the blue Chevy.


Startled, I jumped back from the car as if I was hit in the face.


The teenage girl lay in a fetal position in the car’s trunk. Her eyes

stared lifelessly. Her dark blond hair came down over her shoulders.


Her hair was wet and matted. Beach sand was in her hair, and plastered

about her body. She was wearing a two piece blue bathing suit.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been staring at her when I realized both

Fred and Phil were standing next to me. “Oh crap,” Fred kept saying

over and over.

Phil finally said something, 

"She is about the age of my daughter.”

 All three of us stood there without saying anything for a

full minute. A hoarse cry came from my left. The elderly couple had

walked up to see what was happening. The wife of the manager had

already been horrified once, by finding the young man covered in

blood. Now she was crying, her hands covering her face. She turned

to her husband, burying her face in his chest. The woman’s sobbing

became louder and louder. The elderly man was trying to get her to

leave and walk back towards the motel office.


The girl looked very dead to me. Her skin was lifeless and almost

without color. Detective Phil was the

fi rst one to move. Phil reached to

touch her neck. “No pulse. She looks like her neck is broken, the way

her head is twisted back,” Phil said quietly. Placing his hand on her

neck again, then on her arm, Phil said, “She is pretty cold.” Phil took

hold of the girls arm, lifting it up, then laying it back down, almost

as if was trying to be gentle, as if he was trying not to hurt her. Phil

continued, trying to sound detached, mechanical. Then I realized the

detective was recording.