Cheap Thrills (6 Thrilling reads) (53 page)

Ten

‘Okay, just stay there and I’ll send a patrol car to pick you up…Don’t worry about him, I’ll sort him out, you stay put and as I
said, I’ll have a car meet you,’ Chief Shaw hangs up the phone and looks overwhelmed for a few minutes. A knock on his office door startles him back into reality.

‘Who is it?’ he shouts as he shuffles his case files on the desk.

‘It’s me, Alvarez.’

‘Shit
,’ Shaw says under his breath. ‘Come in,’ he finally says as he finished tidying his desk. The door creaks open and Commissioner Alvarez sways on through holding a case file in his sturdy polarized grip.  He slams the heavy folder down on Chief               Shaw’s desk next to the tidy files the chief was stacking high moments before. Shaw looks on in confusion.

‘What’s this?’ He asks as he gestures at the new files on his desk.

‘Homework,’ Alvarez says while smiling.

‘What for exactly?’  Asks Shaw impatiently
.

‘Every case needs a backdrop, some sort of history if you like. Believe it or not,
this case we are working on has a compelling distant cousin so to speak.’

‘What case? We have quite a few Sir.’

Alvarez sighs in annoyance at the ignorance of Shaw.

‘The Christmas gift box decapitations.’

‘Is that what we are calling it now?’

‘Yes, and I would appreciate
 it if you would take this more seriously.’

‘With all due respect sir, I have an enormous amount of work already. Some of these cases have been open for a good while now, I can’t just drop everything for this one off Christmas prank.’

‘This isn’t some Christmas prank Shaw. This is much more than a normal case.’

‘Yes Sir, I understand, but until we have more on this, we can’t drop our current case load. It will be given the attention it needs, nothing less, nothing more.’

Alvarez shakes his head in disapproval. He turns around and reaches for the door handle when the door opens suddenly. He steps a few feet back and is met by a small eyed uniformed patrol man. He smiles at the Commissioner nervously.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you two…’

‘Haven’t you heard of knocking Officer…?’

‘It’s important. Detective Frank McKenzie just walked in
. He has some evidence with him relating to the recent decapitation case.’

Eleven

Detective Mullins puts the shifter in neutral and pulls the hand break on. He catches a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror. He looks worn out, burnt to a crisp. His recent escapades in New Mexico have given his skin a reddened texture. He burns easily in the sun; the long days in Mexico have taken a lot out of him. It was his first assignment as a Detective. Ever since the shifting events of the summer where he and Frank McKenzie were involved in the much publicized case of Connor Chase, both men had hit peaks in their careers. Mullins had been promoted, McKenzie had been hospitalised. Both of them still felt fresh off the battlefield. Both of them wanted to move on. Mullins shook his head at the thought of Connor Chase still being at large. He felt at ease though, knowing that a case like Connor Chase wouldn’t come around twice in one life time,
or so he thought
. He breathed in deeply and exhaled. The air exited his body much like the moral he sourly lacked. It had been a long couple of months. In between Boston’s worst crisis in recent memory and chasing cartels in Mexico, this case felt a bit more relaxed. Even if the circumstances seemed bleak, decapitations were worlds apart from bomb scares and maniac killers on the loose. Mullins felt as if this case was a walk in the park compared to the past few months. He felt confident and tested. Surely his luck would kick in, and an easy few months would pass where every murder and robbery in the Boston area would be solved by him. He wanted to be a Detective, but figured that a few more weeks like the one’s he had just witnessed wouldn’t be missed. He needed a break, an easy case. Even if this current one seemed barbaric, he figured that he would be able to get to the bottom of it. Maybe it was just a one off for all he knew, it didn’t matter because now he was
deep into it
. His mind was focused, and his woes were held back. It was time to do some work. He stepped out of his car, a 1973 Mustang Boss 302. It was a flash car, black, with a white streak through it. The marginal pay rise he had received helped him qualify for the finance the bank was asking for the purchase on the car. Mullins hadn’t always imagined himself as a flash guy, but being a Detective meant you needed to look the part. And the way his career was going, car chases didn’t seem unlikely so a fast car it was. He shut the glistening heavy door of the car. It echoed in the derelict side street. He looked up at the sign over the way. “
Mason Humphries Street Cleaning
”

He shuffled his feet forward as he stepped through some deep puddles. The wet sensation griped his feet as he cracked his neck, releasing some of the pent up frustration he had been feeling. He reached the large metal grated door, like a security shutter that most shops have in a mall. He banged his fist on the rusted metal. The clanging sound spiralled through the alley. He looked behind him, admiring his
curvaceous vehicle in the backdrop. It looked out of place in the side street. He reached into his pocket and switched the lock on. The sound of the automatic lock could be heard from where Mullins was standing. As he took his hand out of his pocket, a small flap on the metal door slid open. Some ones faced poked out. The man’s eyes darted from left to right totally ignoring Mullins who was standing right in front of him. He finally acknowledged him with a brief nod of his head. The sound of metal unwinding filled the shallow alley as the large metal gate opened. The scrawny man in a well pressed Italian suit smiled and shook Mullins outstretched hand. He signalled Mullins inside. ‘Please do make yourself at home Detective Mullins. Can I offer you a coffee or something?’ The man says as he steps aside, allowing Mullins the right of way. ‘Nah, you know why I’m here. Where’s Humphries?’

‘I’m not too sure Mr Police man. He said he would be back in a
few hours. I’m sure if you wait you will be able to catch up with him as soon as he comes back,’ Mullins nods his head as he waits for the man to close the gate while he stands in the small corridor. He watches as the small Italian accented man flicks an ominous medieval looking switch on the wall.

‘Why all the security?’ Asks Mullins as he reaches in his jacket and pulls out a cigarette.

‘We have a lot of expensive cleaning equipment here. A lot of it is purchased with our own money, some of it is on grant, and the vehicles like the street sweepers, are on loan from the bank. If someone came in here and took our equipment, we’d be fucked good and proper like a blonde at a porn convention. Mr Humphries doesn’t like to get fucked without dinner and a glass of wine beforehand that is. After that he isn’t too picky,’ the cheerful man says as he finally manages to close the heavy gate. He looks Mullins up and down and sighs. ‘You should be careful where you stand Detective. Humphries doesn’t like people bringing mud in from the street. It will contaminate the cleaning equipment. Can you please leave your dirty shoes at the door?’

‘And walk in bare foot?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, It’s just the boss will have my neck if he sees the track marks on the floor, its protocol around here.’

Mullins shakes his head in disbelief.

‘And I though the shiny shoes and pressed suits were fashion statements,’ he says as he kicks his black shoes off.

‘If you follow me to the waiting room, the boss will meet you when he returns.’

‘You guys have a waiting room here?’

‘Yes, for the council types that come here and negotiate business… cleaning business that is.’

‘You have meetings about street cleaning?’

‘Yes, the Mayor of Boston is particularly keen on keeping the streets clean.’

Mullins sits down on a chair in the waiting room. It’s decked out with classic singer portraits on the walls. It’s a stereotypical
Godfather
type hang out. The corners of Mullins mouth sharpen as he tries not to laugh.

‘Is everything okay?’ The Italian man asks

‘Yeah, I was just thinking that I agree.’

‘Agree with what?’

‘Keeping the streets clean…’

Twelve

Chief Shaw steps on through the middle tier offices that stand in between the foyer and the operations room. It’s a cluster of small booths occupied by wide eyed detectives as they fill out the paperwork on
whichever cases they are working on. Shaw reaches the foyer in a matter of minutes. He spots Frank sitting on the visitor’s bench next to the door. He composes himself and walks on over to him. He spots what Frank is holding. He stops dead and breaths in deep. ‘Tell me that isn’t what I think it is,’ he finally says.

Frank looks on up at Shaw as he nods his head.

Shaw signals Frank up off his seat. He follows the Chief back on through the booths all the way to his office. Shaw shuts the door behind him and pours himself a drink. He quickly swigs it and makes eye contact with Frank who seems to be waiting on a response from his boss. ‘So?’ Frank asks.

‘Indeed,
’ Shaw replies as he struggles to find the words that fit the occasion.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me what’s in this box?’

‘I don’t need to Frank. I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

‘The thing is,
’ Frank says just before Shaw interrupts him.

‘You found a box with some decapitated human parts in it, am I right?’

Frank’s face washes with confusion as he looks on at the near stiff fear in the eyes of his boss.

‘Yeah, how the hell did you know that?’

‘We got a call earlier today that the Christmas tree in the city center was toppled over by some troublemakers. We sent officer Santiago out on the call and he discovered a box just like yours on the scene. This particular box was crammed with two female legs, severed at the limbs, seeping blood out of the box. Someone purposely put the Christmas box under the tree, replacing the replica empty ones that were there before. The box could have been there for a while, we don’t know for sure how long though.’

‘What about the tree being vandalised?’

‘The people who tipped the tree over were unlikely the ones who planted the box there. Reports say that they were kids, although they were wearing ski masks, it was clear that they were local teens, most likely around the age of 18 considering that they were hooting and hollering at the top of their lungs. A serious killer wouldn’t be drawing attention to himself by toppling over a tree. I think we found it early, I think we were never meant to find it.’

‘Well I was certainly meant to find this particular box.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because this one was practically thrown at me.’

Thirteen

The young girl Roxanne opens her eyes for the first time today. She sees the usual sights that she has grown accustom to. The shards of light bellowing off her dim surroundings, the smell of course metal hitting her lungs and the screams and sobs of the other girls. She’s been here for a while. It seems as if this place is the only place she can remember. Her brain tries to remember other things, but sometimes she just gives up. There’s no point in trying to remember happier times. She has to deal with the present. The time at hand is no time she wishes to be a part of, but she has to stay strong, that’s what she tells her self every day. As soon as she wakes up, she reminds herself of her plan. Remain calm and collected. It’s worked so far. She’s been here longer then all of the girls. Every day she hears the screams. Every day she sees the cell’s grow emptier one body at a time. The busiest she has seen this place was a year ago, the
Machete Man
, as she calls him anyway, brung around twelve girls in last year. He kept them here for a while until recently that is. Most of the girls had gone into the room in front of her. One by one, the vast metal door had shut behind them. The muffled sounds of screaming were heard, then nothing for a good while. Then he would repeat the same thing, over and over again, until finally it was just her. She was used to being the last one. It had happened three times now over the course of four years, he had kept her here for longer than any of the other girls. She doesn’t know why, nor does she care. She just wants to find a way out. It was going to be hard. The place she was being kept prisoner in was dark and rigid. She had a cell just like everyone else. The cell was iron clad with a hulking metal barred door to keep her at bay. The actual walls were rock, most likely granite and iron; she recognised some of the textures of the rock. Her dad was a keen rock collector. There was something about rocks that fascinated him. She would always laugh to herself, thinking how ironic it is that she is being kept prisoner here of all places. Her dad would have loved the place, if only she wasn’t in it that is. She imagined her parents had given up on finding her by now. It had been four years, they most likely thought she was dead, but she forgave them if that was the case. How could she blame them? How could she blame the police if indeed they did give up the search for her? She still remembers the day she was taken. It was a sunny day in Boston, a day that she imagined the angels of the sky would embrace, a day that God had created especially for the human race. It was the sort of day that made most people glad to be alive. A glorious beaming sun would lighten up most peoples grim thoughts. New England isn’t known for such days, especially in December. It was a day she remembers not only for the great heat, but for the way it changed her life forever. She was twelve years old and it was Christmas Eve. She had gone out with her friends to the mall. She wanted to get her dad one last present. It was a rock hammer, to shape and polish rocks. It was a hobby of his. The only thing she remembers vividly about that day is stepping into the woman’s toilets on the second floor of the mall. She needed to relieve herself after drinking a 7 Eleven, trying to scratch the dryness out of her mouth. She had gone into the ladies toilets for a few minutes. It was empty. She had sat down on the toilet. She had waited there for a few minutes until she had finished then she had gotten up and opened the door to be met with a blinding rag to her face. She remembers the smell of that rag vividly. It made her sleepy to think about it now, let alone then. The next thing she knew, she woke up in that very cell on her birthday, four years ago today. She sighs as she thinks about another birthday away from her parents, another Christmas away from society, and another lot of screaming girls.