Authors: Casey Doran
“None.”
“Think. Have you had any hang-ups lately? Anybody hanging around the building? Anybody following you?”
“No, nothing like that. At least not that I've noticed.” I took a long drag from my cigarette, stifling the urge to cough.
“Could this be the work of one of Peter's disciples, maybe?” My parents had been psychotic. But they were not without sympathizers, like-minded people who believed that mass murder was justified, as long as it was carried out on individuals who were âevil' enough to “deserve” it.
“It's possible,” I said. “God knows, there are enough of those freaks out there. I still hear from them, time to time. This guy Booker apparently fits the profile.”
“Until this thing gets figured out, you need to watch your back.”
“Always.”
The television set above the bar was turned on and on mute. The news screen cut to a shot of Congressman Preston Masters standing outside the courthouse. I felt bile rising from my gut, the usual reaction to seeing the city's' esteemed politician. Everything from his suit to his hair was overdone. The press was gathered around like groupies at a rock concert, putty in his hands. I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume as Masters took a deep, thoughtful breath, as though every word about to come out of his mouth had not already been written.
“I have been made aware of the details of this horrible crime,” Masters said. “Clearly, this is the act a sick, twisted, and violent individual. The police department is already working diligently, and I have no doubt that their efforts will ultimately lead to the capture of this monster.”
A reporter raised a question about the identity of the victim.
“I'm sorry, Jaime, but that name is still being withheld.”
“Can you comment on the initial rumors that Jericho Sands was the murder victim?”
Preston frowned. He looked past the reporter and into the camera. He'd been taught by his father, who was a former governor, to always speak into the camera and he took the message to heart. For whatever else Preston Masters was, he was a skilled public speaker and could manipulate his audience like a snake charmer.
“You will have to take that up with him. Unfortunately, it seems as though Mister Sands saw an opportunity to turn this horrific event into some sort of publicity stunt. Maybe his book sales are down.”
“Publicity stunt!” I yelled.
“Calm down,” Tanner said.
“How about later reports that Mister Sands was questioned by detectives? Is Jericho Sands a suspect?”
“Obviously, I cannot comment on any details, as this is an ongoing investigation. But I am certain that whatever role Jericho Sands may have played in this terrible tragedy, the police will bring it to light.”
“Whatever role I played?” I yelled.
“Easy,” Tanner said.
“What is your personal opinion? Do you think Jericho Sands committed this crime?”
It was a softball, lobbed up for him to knock out of the park and completely devoid of any kind of journalistic integrity. Right up Preston's alley.
“Well, I can certainly attest to the fact that Mister Sands is unstable and prone to acts of unprovoked violence.”
“Unprovoked?”
“Easy,” Tanner said.
“I am also sure that, unlike throughout his previous sordid history, Jericho Sands will pay for his wrongdoing.”
I picked up my coffee mug and flung it at the screen. The mug, screen, and plastic all shattered in a burst. Coffee dripped lazily down the ruined unit. As quickly as it had come, my anger fled. Tanner looked down at the wreckage.
“That TV was brand-new, wasn't it?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just got it last month. And it wasn't cheap, either.”
“Sorry. I'll write you a check.”
“Forget it. I'll just put it on your damages tab.”
“I really hate that asshole,” I said, by way of explanation. None was needed. My feud with Preston Masters was well documented. And growing by the day.
“You think he would have eased up,” I said. “Kat and I aren't seeing each other anymore.”
“Maybe he's still upset with you for throwing him into a Dumpster.”
The memory brought a smile. Preston had come in to the bar waving papers from the Board of Health that condemned the Blue Note as untenable. They were of course as much a work of fiction anything I have ever written, but they were official and would hold up in court. Masters's ultimatum was that I stop seeing his sister immediately or else the papers would be served and the bar shut down. I had a counteroffer. I threw the papers in the Dumpster behind the building, along with their messenger.
I served one week in county with another month probation. It was a slap on the wrist considering the “victim” was a United States Congressman. Luckily, the judge was a Democrat and not the largest supporter of the young congressman. In fact, I was sure that during the sentencing I had detected his honor suppressing the tiniest of grins. Katrina, however, had no intention of letting me off the hook so easily. On the day of my release, as I was turning out of the parking lot, a brick crashed through the windshield of my truck and ended up in my lap with splinters of shattered glass. On it were written two words in thick black letters â
WE
'
RE OVER
!' The congressman got his wish, the forged papers having served their purpose, albeit not in the manner intended.
“It's not even noon and already he's jumping all over this thing,” I said.
Tanner nodded. “He has to make the early news circuit. I have to admit, it's a pretty good play. If nothing more happens, he gets to take the credit. But if the bodies start to pile up, he's aligning his pieces to place the blame squarely on you.”
Preston Masters was as addicted to attention as a heroin junkie to his next fix. In the year and half since his election to Congress he appeared in
GQ
seven times,
Maxim
twice, and on TMZ every week. The son of a former governor, he was quickly and diligently working to establish himself as a national figure. His goal was to be in the White House by the time he was forty-five. My nightmare was that he would achieve it.
I knew that whatever happened tonight, the ambitious little prick would use it to propel himself further into the spotlight.
The killer had left only slightly more of a mess than the cops. My couch was upended. The cushions were tossed aside. Drawers and closets were emptied and left open, their contents strewn about the floor. My mattress was flipped over and lay cockeyed against the wall.
“Seriously, what the hell were they looking for?” I asked. I rubbed Doomsday's back and congratulated him on showing enough restraint not to kill any of the cops who tore apart our home. His territorial tendencies and impatience for strangers are not to be underestimated.
I went to the kitchen and drank a beer at the window overlooking the river. Lights traced the Murray Baker Bridge with commuters on their way home. Fifteen hours removed from the worst murder the town had ever seen and life was already moving on as if nothing had happened. Peoria is no stranger to violent crime, but most of the population has built the “it didn't happen to me” shell around them. Sean Booker's death would be talked about at work places and bus stops, but it would quickly become more of a conversation topic than anything to really worry about. The ability for a large city to desensitize itself to violent crime is both a gift and a curse.
For the first time, the full effect of all that happened began to settle in. I wondered about the killer's motive. Why go to so much trouble? What was the endgame? When writing a novel, I always tried to find the ending first. What ending did this person have planned?
While I thought about it, my eye fell upon an open space on the wall that had previously held a painting bought for me by Katrina. The work managed to be both dark and colorful. It featured an array of harsh reds and blacks mixed with vibrant yellows and greens in a juxtaposition of gloomy and uplifting. Hieronymus Bosch meets Hallmark. A few days after our breakup she sent a proxy to retrieve it. Not because she wanted it. She just wanted to make the statement. Kat's big on statements. She once stopped her show in the middle of a song because somebody was talking on a cell phone. The offending person has not been allowed in the Dungeon since. I looked at the bare space on my wall, a physical manifestation of the empty place she left.
“I miss her, buddy.” I told him. My dog, my friend and companion, turned and farted at me. Kat is the one person he doesn't growl at or piss on. Toward the end of our relationship, he even got so far as turning over and letting her rub his belly. I think he liked the way her nails felt. If given the choice, I'm not sure Doomsday wouldn't go bunk with her.
No sympathy to be found there.
Setting the beer aside, I pulled a copy of
Black as Night
from the bookshelf. I read the scene where Christian beheads victim number 5 with a chainsaw. At the time, I was satisfied that I had created a realistic and effective tableau for the crime. But I had not even come close. The reality of seeing, and
smelling
, such a horrific act in real life exceeded the realms of imagination.
Maybe that's a good thing.
But the killer had used it as a script. The chair. The bounds. The victim. Number 5 was a petty thief and drug dealer. A lowlife. Very similar to Sean Booker.
I skipped ahead to the next victim, number 4. With this one, Christian used fire. It was one of his favorite methods. Easy. Effective. Almost poetically simple in its brutality. He doused his victim in gasoline, tossed a match, and watched as they writhed around in a fireball.
Standing in my living room, I felt a chill. The book featured some truly horrible methods of execution. Decapitation. Fire. Drowning. The last victim had been tortured over the course of five days; Christian tied his victim to the rafters in his home and stabbed him thirty seven times before finally finishing him off. Overkill, to be sure. Honestly,
I
had thought I had overdone it. But reader response was through the roof. The more crazed Christian became, the faster the books flew off the shelves.
I went to my markerboard, wiped it clean, and began scribbling. I started with one word, the basic interrogative that begins every investigation.
Why?
Why kill somebody in my garage? Why use one of the methods from one of my books? Why use my chainsaw to do it? The obvious answer was to frame me for the murder, but it was a lot of trouble to go through for something that ultimately would not work. Cops are not dumb. Pushing them in my direction would eventually only make them wonder who was doing the pushing.
There was something about the crime scene that kept bugging me. Something about the footsteps? It was there, hovering just out of reach. But I was too exhausted to see it. I leaned back on the couch. Thirty hours with no sleep. Interrogated by detectives. Under suspicion for beheading a drug dealer.
It had been a hell of a day.
But I was too restless to go to bed. I got online and found the address for Sean Booker. It was only five miles away, but not in an area I spent a lot of time. I grabbed my phone, keys, and gun and went downstairs to the garage. I was halfway to my truck when a person in a spacesuit intercepted me. The mask and goggles came off. Black hair fell down to a pierced lower lip. A tattoo on his neck of a hawk. Or eagle.
“It's a griffin.” He said, catching my stare. “Like my last name. Lucas Griffin. I'm the lead tech for this site. I would shake your hand, but ...” He held up a yellow neoprene glove covered in things I did not even want to think about.
“I can't let you take your truck, man. Sorry.” He nodded toward my Ford, and I gave it a closer look. Blood spatter and pieces of something that looked like cream of wheat freckled the paint. A technician was collecting something that looked like rotten cabbage from the fender and driver side window and was placing it in a plastic cup. I was amazed that the spatter had traveled that far. I was also grateful that I had not left my window down.
“We should be wrapping up in about an hour,” he said. By the way he was looking at me, I could tell he was debating if I had been the one who left this nice little mess for him. He looked curious, but not overly concerned.
“So, what's the verdict, Griffin? Guilty or not guilty?”
“Honestly, I'm leaning toward not. I got here pretty quick last night and saw you before you were taken downtown. If you were anywhere near this when it happened, no way you could have cleaned up that fast. And if you had, you would have
looked
like you just cleaned up.”
“What if I wore a raincoat and hood? I writeâ”
“I know. I've read all your stuff. It's really good and I love the characters and the action. But the forensics? Well, hit me up next time you need some tech advice. I'd be happy to answer questions and give some background. I gotta get back to work. Your bike is fine to take, if you need to leave. The truck seemed to have shielded it from everything. We had to remove the cover, though. Just to be safe.”