The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

  “You’re Detective Donovan!” A smile spreads across his face and he lowers the shotgun. “Holy shit, I almost shot you. You should have said it was you.”

  Holy shit. “I did, buddy. You must have not heard me.” I let go of my sidearm, step forward and extend my right hand, hoping the friendly gesture will put him even more at ease.

  I’m surprised and even slightly frightened when he grabs my hand and pulls me into his large torso without warning. At first, my sense of alertness spikes again, but then I realize he’s giving me a hug. His right hand is clasped over mine and his left arm is wrapped around me with the shotgun still in his hand. I get a slight whiff of stale sweat, but I’ll take it over a 12-gauge slug to the face.

  “How are you, man?” He asks cheerfully.

  “Uh – good. You?” He still has me in an embrace, but a part of me is afraid to tell him to let go.

  “Not too bad, not too bad.” Finally, he releases me and steps back. “I’m sorry I pointed a gun at you – but if you’ll look and see,” he breaks the shotgun open revealing two empty barrels. “I don’t carry ammunition because of my medication and my condition, you see.”

  I force a smile. “Very responsible of you, Lex.”

  “Do you want to come inside?”

  Another breeze sweeps through the property, cutting through my jacket and the clothes underneath. “Please.”

  Lex nods, turns around and heads into the house. As I follow him, I’m reminded of a circus bear walking on its back legs. The old wooden floor creeks underneath his weight as he steps into the house and I see him point to a worn sofa in the living room just to the right of the entryway.

  “Please sit,” he says. “I’m going to get a drink in the kitchen. Wanna pop?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Sure? It’s Code Red.”

  I force another smile. “I’m good. Appreciate it though.”

  I make myself as comfortable as I can on the lumpy couch and wait for Lex to grab his sugary beverage. I take in the small living room, not really surprised of its spartan look. There’s an older model flat screen in the corner, an even older recliner across from the couch, and a scuffed-up coffee table in the center. The ceiling fan is missing one of its five blades, and there is yellowing in the ceiling from water damage. However, despite the old, worn out look of the house, I notice it’s also very clean. Almost OCD clean. I’m hard pressed to find one speck of dust or piece of dirt on the floor or table top, and I’m fairly certain I can smell Pine-Sol cleaner from somewhere deeper in the house.

  I hear the sound of a carbonated pop from the kitchen as Lex opens one of his Mountain Dews and I shake my head. Lex isn’t the killer. There’s no way in hell. His schizophrenic outbursts of the past had all been sporadic with no real focus towards any particular victim. He just hurt whatever had gotten in his way. Now, he can barely hold a conversation without pausing to let his brain catch up to the rest of him due to his medication. Comparing the Lex of the past to the Lex I’m with now gives me no impression that either version is a calculating psychopathic child killer. I sit here on his lumpy couch, waiting for him to get his pop, fully aware that this trip was a complete and utter waste of my time.

  “Do you watch football?” Lex calls from the kitchen in a loud, slow voice. “I’m addicted to the NFL. Like – the kneeling bullshit is so dumb, but I like the game, you know?” He steps back into the living room and scrunches his face up again to adjust his glasses. I notice the shotgun is now replaced with a blood-red can of pop. “The 49ers are like really bad this year.”

  I shrug. “Guess I don’t have time for sports like I used to.”

  “Because of your detective work?”

  “Something like that.”

  Lex moves over to the recliner and plops down like a sack of bricks. “What did you want to ask me? Do you think I killed that little boy again? That would be not cool if you did.”

  “Did you?” I ask, not really seeing the need to sugar coat anything.

  “No way, Detective Donovan. Nuh-uh.” He takes a long drink of his pop and then adds, “Because that would be bad, and I am not a bad man.”

  “I don’t believe you are.”

  “I have Schizophrenia. Like, really bad – but I’m not a serial killer, you know? And my medication keeps me on track, although it makes me mentally slow. Can you tell?”

  “Not really,” I lie. “How are you doing these days? With the schizophrenia, I mean. Last time I saw you, you were nowhere near this grounded.”

  “Oh, up until a couple years ago I was bad, Detective Donovan. It took like two years before I was finally put on the right dosage. Dr. Shultz helped a lot with that, but after his son died, I had to see other doctors and they eventually helped me. But it’s not rainbows and unicorns.”

  “No? Because of the cognitive delay?”

  “No. Here’s the thing – the medication doesn’t take away the voices or the weird shit I see. I still see things that aren’t there and I still hear the voices. I hear voices right now telling me to do nasty things, Detective Donovan. What the medication does is helps me distinguish what is real and what is fake.”

  “That sounds like it would be difficult to deal with,” I say with genuine interest.

  “It can be, but I am doing good, though. Life is like –” he pauses as if searching for the right words. He then holds out a hand with his palm up. “Reality is like trying to hold a stack of Jell-O in my hand. It can be very difficult sometimes.”

  “I imagine it can be.” I lean forward in my seat. “Are you working anywhere?”

  Lex nods with a big smile. “I’m a night shift stocker at Costco and I help in the orchard warehouses in the summertime.”

  “Good for you.”

  “It’s not anything super cool or nothin’, but it makes me money, you know?”

  “Absolutely.” He’s making a life for himself, and here I am digging into his dark past about an incident I’m sure he is not at all responsible for. “Going back to five years ago, you remember Dennis O’Leary, right?”

  “Sure do. He was like me.”

  “Yes, and you two were my first original suspects for that reason, as you know.”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you remember any other people that Dr. Shultz saw that could also fit the same profile as you two? Meaning, do you remember any other violent patients that I could maybe look into?”

  He scrunches his face again, takes another drink and then says, “Umm, other than Dennis, no. The Man on Little Sweden had a few really crazy ones, but none that I can recall being able to do what – well, what the killer did. Did you not ask about this before?”

  “I did, but I’m just trying to make sure I didn’t miss anything before.”

  “He’s a hard one to track down, huh? The killer.”

  “He is.”

  “I’m sorry you’re so short on time.”

  I feel a sudden stab of anxiety and force myself to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Thursday the 24th is only a few days away and here I am, getting nowhere, with an innocent man trying to make the best of his unfortunate life.

  I stand up and extend a hand. “I’m sorry to bother you, Lex.”

  “You didn’t bother me, I enjoyed the company,” Lex stands and takes my hand in his.

  His grip is hard and I can feel the bones in my hand shift slightly from the pressure, but I don’t flinch. “Quite a grip you got there.”

  “Yeah,” he releases my hand. “Sorry, I forget sometimes that I do that. You didn’t have a lot to ask me, Detective Donovan.”

  I shrug. “Kind of hard to question someone for murder when you know they’re innocent, Lex. Seeing you here doing so well is only more proof to that. I’m glad to see you’ve got your life on track. Truly.”

  “Thank you, Detective Donovan. I’ll be happy when you have yours on track, too.”

  I’m taken aback by his words at first and am unsure what to say. People usually aren’t so b
lunt about it, and I know Lex means well, but it still hits hard nonetheless. All I can manage is a polite nod before I see myself out the front door.

  By the time I get to my Bronco, I can feel myself shaking with frustration and it takes all the willpower I have to not scream at the heavens like a madman. Lex is absolutely right. I’m very short on time. If I don’t figure something out, someone’s little boy is going to pay the price.

  And it’ll be all my fault.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the Name of God

  DAVID TREMBLED WITH excitement at the sound of the familiar knock on his front door, but as previously instructed, he kept still. The rule was simple, although hard to follow at times. Whenever the particular sounding knock happened, he was to wait an entire five minutes before retrieving what was on the other side. It was not a rule of his own making, but one his Master had been very specific about when he’d started his holy quest. He looked down at the cheap watch on his wrist and shivered with anticipation.

  He had to admit, though, that the timing of the knock had been good. Not twenty minutes ago, Mary had dropped him off before heading home, leaving him with a long kiss that once again was ruined by the sting of the clothespin. He’d always appreciated the wooden device that helped curb his most human desires, but now he was struggling with it. He wanted it gone, he wanted to experience the most human interaction of all, he wanted Mary. But he knew it was all a test, as was nearly everything else in life. God wanted him to feel these things so that He could see what David was made of, and David swore he would not give in. To give in would be to fail and to fail would be to earn his place in the deepest pits of Hell.

  He glanced at his watch again and groaned, still seeing he had a little over a minute left. He’d already flogged himself; the ritual had been completed ten minutes after Mary’s departure, and so he couldn’t fill the time with that. The punishment to his body, although deserving, could only be taken so far. So, like the good soldier of God, he would wait until it was time to see what awaited him on the other side.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, David jumped up from his bed and dashed into the living room of his single-wide. In just a few long strides, he made it to the front door just as his watch hit the five-minute mark. He threw the door open with impatient vigor and looked at the porch below him with wild eyes.

  Sitting on the old planks, was a thick manila envelope. As usual, the envelope was not addressed to anyone, nor did it have a return address. As with everything in David’s life, that was also deliberate. It was one of many precautions he and his Master took in order to keep the eyes of the demon’s off of them. Satan was clever, and so, doing something as stupid as addressing the envelope would be more than enough to get the Dark Lord on his scent.

  David snatched up the envelope and slammed the front door shut, locking each of the locks as fast as he could before retreating into the safety of his bedroom. For good measure, he even locked his bedroom door, just in case some unseen force had made its way into his home when he wasn’t paying attention.

  He plopped down on his bed and crossed his legs with the manila envelope clutched firmly in the sweaty grip of his long fingers. With the enthusiasm of a madman, he tore the top of the envelope off with one clean tear and dumped the contents out onto his comforter.

  As usual, there was a folded letter of parchment paper, but there was also something else, something different. Along with the folded letter, out came a zip lock bag with what appeared to be a latex glove inside of it. He reached for the bag and then stopped himself. Best read the letter first before messing with things you do not understand, he thought to himself.

  Refraining from touching the baggie with the glove, David unfolded the paper and began reading, his eyes looking over each word as carefully as possible so that he made no mistakes in the intent of the message.

  David,

  Your day of glory is nearly upon us. Your time to strike at the heart of the Devil is merely days away. I am proud of you, and I have always been proud of you. Because of this, I send you a gift. You have told me in the past you have trouble controlling your urges to kill, but I have explained to you that those urges come from God himself, because you’re purpose in life is to kill the Demons that Satan has sent to this Earth. Only a few days ago, you justly killed one of these demons, and so when you told me recently that you wish to slay one more before Christmas Eve, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that you are indeed a warrior sent from God Himself. You have my blessing, as well as God’s, to carry out another kill, but this time, there are rules.

  The Heavenly Father and I do not care which Demon you choose, but we do ask three things. 1) You use a blade. 2) You leave the blade in the body of the slain demon. 3) You hold the knife wearing the glove provided to you in the envelope.

  It is crucial you abide by these conditions, David. I know you must be wanting to know why, but the why is not important. What is important is that you succeed. Your place next to God in Heaven depends on it. As does mine.

  See it gets done, my son. You shall strike today.

  In the name of God.

  David could feel his heart racing in his chest as he read and reread the letter. Excitement and adrenaline flowed through his veins, like that of a jaguar before pouncing on an unsuspecting caiman in the Amazon. He had prayed for guidance in his need for another kill before the 24th, and God had answered him.

  He looked down at the glove in the bag and smiled. Although he did not understand the importance of the glove, to him it was nothing less than a sacred device requested by the Almighty. He would do as instructed.

  David got down from his bed and made his way towards the glass display case against the bedroom wall. With a determined look on his face, David ran his fingertips down the glass as he decided which weapon to choose for tonight’s crusade.

  His eyes settled on a weapon he’d yet to wield, and he decided it was time to finally put the blade to good use. He’d never used an ax before in his killings, but this kill somehow felt special.

  And a special kill always required a special weapon.

  *

  David waited for nightfall before moving forward with his plan. It was the sensible thing to do, especially this time of year. Not only did the sun go down sooner in December, people also got off the streets sooner to avoid the bitter cold. Even so, there was almost always the straggler who waited just a little longer than everyone else before turning in for the night, the one or two people who enjoyed their alone time during their nightly walks. In this case, it was a middle-aged fat man with a French poodle.

  David could tell right away the man was a homosexual. The way he walked with a slight shake of his hips and erect back and the way he talked to his dog in his “baby voice” made David’s skin crawl. The dog itself was a dead giveaway, not just because it was a toy poodle, but because it wore a ridiculous pink sweater with a bow atop its head like some sort of fairy fucking prize dog.

  It was disgusting to see humanity stoop so low that it had become okay for “men” like this to exist in the world. That it was now an accepted way of life and that to even remotely criticize it would automatically make one a bigot or even a Nazi. From under his long coat, David gripped the handle of his ax with his gloved hand even harder as rage swirled through his body like an angry storm.

  He’d been following the faggot for over an hour, first spotting him in the park where he’d killed the old man only a couple days before. They’d covered a large part of the city since then, much to David’s annoyance, as he’d witnessed the demon window shop at closed businesses, and stop frequently so his mutt could piss or shit.

  It was nearly eleven at night before the man said to his dog, “I think we got our steps in for the day, don’t you?” and then corrected his course down an alleyway between a hardware store and a thrift shop, most likely taking the shortcut to get to his car in a quicker fashion.

  David made a final glance to see if anyone was watchin
g, and when satisfied he was in the clear, he followed the gay man and his dog into the short alleyway. He had to move fast, he realized, seeing the man was near the end of the alleyway and back into the open.

  Not really sure what else to do, he called out for the man to buy himself a few precious seconds of time. “Sir! Sir, wait! You dropped something.”

  The gay man turned around, as did his dog. David could hear a slight growl from the poodle and then a hushed whisper from the man to tell the dog to be quiet. “I did?”

  Genuine confusion, good. David slowed his pace and said, “Yes, sir. When you passed McDonalds a few minutes ago – I’ve been trying to catch up ever since.” David reached into his pocket and found his own $20 bill and held it up for the man to see. He was just close enough now that the man should be able to make out the shape of the bill in the low light conditions. Still, the dog continued a low growl. David took note of this and proceeded forward.

  As expected, the man with the dog started checking his pockets. It was a natural reaction and one that David expected to see. Money had that effect on people, and it always gave David just enough time for him to close the distance enough for him to be able to strike. As expected, the dog’s growls intensified and David gripped the ax handle even harder.

  “I guess it fell out of one of my pockets,” the man said absentmindedly. “Very nice of you to not hold onto it for yourself. Oh, be quiet Darcy! Can’t you see this young man is being kind?” He stepped toward David, a sheep unaware of a wolf.

  As soon as the man stepped forward, David knew it was time to strike. In a swift, upward motion, he swung the battle ax with his right arm, catching his prey under the chin with one of the dual blades. There was a slight crunching noise as the razor-sharp blade split the man’s lower jawbone in two, knocking him to the cold pavement.

  Now, the dog’s growls turned into primal barks and it lunged for David as soon as it felt the slack in its leash, but the Demon Slayer was already expecting this. He brought the ax downwards now, burying the opposite blade into the top of the hound’s head before the animal could catch him with its fangs. There was no howl or cry, just the crunching sound of metal against bone as the dog shuttered on the other end of the ax. The bow that once sat atop Darcy’s groomed head fell off either side in two perfect pieces. When the dog’s death spasms seized, David had to stand on the back of its neck in order to pry the ax free of its skull.