Detectives, I’ll make this short and sweet. We found another note. This time it was addressed to us by Randall Adams- Peterson exclaims.
Another note?
This is fishy. If Duke is dead, why are we still receiving notes? Shouldn’t this be all over? He left his death note behind and then vanished. Maybe he is dead, maybe not. But if I were on the run after faking my own death, I wouldn’t continue to send notes to the people that are contemplating whether I’m dead or not. I mean, most of us here believe that he is dead. They just want this whole thing to be over. Me, I don’t buy it. But I can’t allow myself to assume anything. That could be detrimental.
The note reads-
“Men and Women of the FBI. Now is my time to confess to you all of the true events that occurred on July 4, 2014. You see, Jim Duke was merely a puppet leader for the Duke clan. We needed a face that people could trust, and a man whose personality is greater than he can control. That man was Duke. Behind this façade, I was the leader. I orchestrated every event and I am responsible for every death. I write to you this note because I am in danger. You see, I allowed the Clan to become involved in an illegal drug mule operation. Long story, short, we needed financing fast, and this was the only way to do it, given my history, which I’m sure you are now aware of. I am currently hiding out at 55 Herring St, Newton. The vacant house on the street with the no trespassing sign. I assure you I am unarmed, but you must come inside to arrest me. I cannot come out to you nor can I call you. I fear these men have me surrounded and have my phones tapped. A letter was the safest way to reach out for help. Please come soon. Au Revoir; Randall Adams.”
Fifty-god damn-five Herring Street. We could have never known. He must’ve even seen us enter the house. He must’ve seen everything. That sly motherfucker. Yet, this makes me question everything. Inquisition is helpful in any case. It allows you and forces you to look at all perspectives of the case. Here, we have a totally new perspective. A new perspective is good. Regardless of the validity of this note or not, Randall Adams will have a multitude of stories about Jim Duke that could help us get closer to closing the case.
Detective Pete? Peterson says to me.
Yes?
I want you and Walters to take a SWAT team down there right now and get this guy in for questioning. If this note is valid, we may not have access to his information for very much longer.
Will do, Captain.
I turn to Walters. This time I am the one with the smile.
Guess you’re gonna’ have to cancel that date tonight.
Chapter 15. Catching the Herring
February 14, 2019
Detective Larry Pete
SWAT team ready on the count of five?
We came with a roster of some of our finest men. Five of our finest men in fact. Five of our finest men, and Detective Dick Walters. Two men stand on either side of the door holding their weapons by their side. These men will be the first of the cavalry to enter. If guns start blazing, these two will be the ones to either win the medal of honor or fall six feet under. In which case they’ll still be rewarded. But what’s the point of a reward if you’re dead.
A third SWAT team member stands directly in front of the door awaiting instructions. He stretches his legs to prepare.
Five
Four
Three
Two
One
The SWAT member winds up with his right leg and kicks the door wide open. The two men immediately rush inside with their weapons and scan the room.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except for that smell. What the fuck is that smell?
You smell that?
I don’t smell anything. Says Walters.
The motherfucker goes against me on everything. I mean it’s not like an opinion to smell something. It’s fucking objective. It’s a fact for god sake.
However, we move past this and we keep moving. Of course we do. Why listen to Detective Larry Pete? The TV is on in the living room. The news is playing. The volume is low but we can now faintly hear it.
The living room is empty. But there is food everywhere. A stale bowl of chips flipped upside down. Looks like it fell off the coffee table and onto the floor. A glass of water spilled onto the table. Pillows all out of place. Looks like somebody was watching TV then got up outta’ here quick.
Hey, I smell something now. Seems like it’s coming from upstairs. Says one of the SWAT members.
Of course everybody pays attention now. But this smell is concerning. I’ve smelled this smell before. It’s not a smell that you want to be smelling. We begin moving up the stairs slowly and step by step the smell becomes more gruesome. You can always tell when the team is anticipating violence. Their steps become smaller and their aim becomes steadier. It’s been a while since I’ve been out in the field. I’ve forgotten how this feels.
Upstairs there are three doors. One is ajar. The other two are closed. The best way to do this is to split up the team. Two men per room. I stay in the middle.
You two. Go to the room on the right. You two go to the room on the left. And Dick, you and you go to this room right in front of us.
Where do you go? Dick says to me. That god damn asshole.
Don’t disrespect me like that in front of my team. I’m leading investigator in case you’ve forgotten. Now go and signal to me if you find something.
I think that’s the first time I’ve really stood up for myself in years. What a fucking great feeling.
The men each go to their point of entry. I give them the signal to enter. A clenched fist held toward my ribs. That’s what we agreed upon. I wasn’t a huge fan but I suppose you can do anything as long as it’s not too revealing.
They each enter the rooms. A moment passes, then suddenly-
Pete, come in here.
The room to the right. The one that was ajar. There are signs of struggle here. I first noticed it downstairs with the chips and the water. Nobody can just leave their shit like that. You would have to be an animal. Considering the house looks like it’s in mint condition. And now the door. Everything points to struggle.
Holy shit.
The unbearable smell of the rotting body in the corner of the room blinds me. This man has been here like this for months it seems. I look around the room. Everything is normal. There is some blood on the floor beneath the body and-
Jesus.
“RA” is written on the wall in blood. The closer I move to the body the more obvious it all becomes to me. This man, as he was dying, slit his wrists and wrote “RA” on the wall. RA, why would he write his own name?
Why would he write his own name?
People do weird shit when they’re dying. Says Walters.
That they do. But this is different. Why write this? Of all things, this was his last word. He cut his wrists with that pocket knife, watched his own blood drain, then use it to write this on the wall. Using all of his strength, only to fall back against the wall and die.
Now what I question is how he was dying. There are no bullet holes, knife wounds, choke marks, or signs of struggle on his body by any means. Perhaps it was a form of poison? If Duke is connected to this at all, the use of poison wouldn’t be out of the question. He has the knowledge and experience to do something like this.
Who is this? Says one of the SWAT members.
The body has already started to decay. Check to see if he has a wallet.
The SWAT member ruffles through the rotting man’s coat pockets. After little search, he finds a wallet and opens it.
What does it say?
Randall Joseph Adams.
God fucking damnit. Of-fucking-course this happens. This is just exactly what I needed. Today of all days! Why not! Who gives a shit about Larry Pete. God certainly doesn’t. If he did, none of this fucking shit would have happened to me.
And you know what? I am trying to do something good. Jim Duke murdered three hundred people and he’s still out there. I just fucking know i
t. And yet, he’s being looked out for. Me? I’m trying to put him away. I’m trying to make sure he never kills another soul on this entire planet again. Why the fuck am I being treated like this? I just don’t get it.
That man did something that I couldn’t even ever dream of. The way he murdered those people. Those children. I will never truly understand. It will take an act of God.
Chapter 16. Why the Herring swam west
July 4, 2014
Randall Joseph Adams
Highland, Maine. Beautiful, boring Highland, Maine. Apparently this town only has 73 residents. I couldn’t even imagine. I’ve always grown up in a city. I like it that way. I’m all about options. Want Chinese food at 2am? No problem. Whereas when you’re in a rural region such as this one, your options are severely limited. Want to order some clothes online? Great your t-shirt will be here in three weeks. Sounds miserable.
But, the day I start my family will be the day that that will all change. I could raise my children in the city, but my wife disagrees. She believes that all children should have a suburban existence for the first stage of their life. I can see her logic. The kids will need to be able to grow in a safe environment. And the suburbs provide a safer environment for young children than a city would. I grew up in the city and I turned out okay. Just okay. Definitely could have been better. But if it weren’t for Duke it would have been much worse. I’m thankful for that man every day. I’m excited to hear of what he has plans for us today.
This gathering is a milestone in the Duke Clan history. The 300 most esteemed members of the clan and their families are all here today. I’m lucky to be one of them. The agenda has been made secret for weeks now. I’m extremely curious. But I would never disobey the master of it all. I have total faith in Duke’s judgement. He has always known what to do.
Once, when we were both fifteen and reckless we devised a fool-proof plan to break into a house on Herring street to steal their beer. It seemed so simple. Duke looks out, I go inside. It was late and there were no cars in the driveway, so we assumed that the resident was out of town. We almost even considered not having a look out. But Duke insisted.
Long story short, I get in and take two cases of beer from their fridge. Then I hear a noise from upstairs. Not the kind of noise that would spark hysteria. No. Rather it sparked curiosity. It sounded like nothing I had ever heard. Gasping with a touch of struggle. It was mysteriously intriguing. So I go upstairs, bright eyed and bushy tailed. The pitch of this mysterious noise remained constant no matter how close I got. I remember that distinctly.
A bedroom door was ajar. It swayed lightly back and forth creating a distinct squeak. The whole place smelled like death. I approached the room with caution. Pressing the cases of beer close to my chest. The paint was peeling off the walls, I remember. The house hadn’t been taken care of properly. It looked like it hadn’t been dusted since the Kennedy era.
As I began to push open the door a gust of wind blew threw the halls and the door swung open. Staring directly into my youthful and innocent eyes, a worn man with a rubber wire around his bicep. A tray of needles lay next to him as he looked into my soul. He was gasping for air with almost no struggle at all. As if this was just him. Just how he was.
Are you okay? I distinctly remember asking.
He wasn’t. But he nodded to me, then slowly drew attention to the cases of beer I had just stolen from him. I was petrified. I didn’t know what the guy was going to do.
Jim. Get the fuck up here. I yelled to my best friend.
He still lay there. Motionless and expressionless. I wanted to call an ambulance, but I didn’t remember seeing a phone in the house. I also didn’t want to get in trouble for breaking & entering. Theft too. I could’ve been in a lot of trouble.
I was only fifteen, but I knew what was happening. He was high on heroin. It was my first time seeing it with my naked eye. I had seen it portrayed on TV before that. Rock stars and such. But this was different. It was sad. But I didn’t see it as that at the time.
How much did that cost? I asked the man.
He couldn’t respond verbally. He had paralyzed himself with the drug. He just kept staring directly into my soul. Speaking to me with words I couldn’t even hear. Silence didn’t even feel like silence. I could hear everything he was trying to say, and I was ignoring it.
I began to walk around the beaten-up room. Rustling through all the nooks and crannies to see what I could find. I distinctly remember finding a glass of orange/cranberry juice mixed. I remember because I fucking hate both of those juices. I don’t know how people can drink that stuff. Cranberry juice just has this certain twang to it that makes my insides want to curl up and disintegrate. And orange juice, well, I just never liked it.
After almost vomiting at the sight of that concoction, I had found what I had hoped to find. Drugs. And lots of them. Cocaine, Ketamine, heroin, cannabis, you name it. Thousands of dollars worth of drugs. I had only one thing on my mind. To take them. Not ingest them, take them and sell them. My father had passed away from alcoholism a few years before that, so needless to say I was scarred from family substance abuse. I saw first hand the damage it caused my family, so I vowed never to take anything that would affect my family like that again.
As I gathered all of the drugs up and put them in one of the beer cases, I turned to the man. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me the whole time. He didn’t appear to be mad. He didn’t appear to be anything. Not even present. I left the house and told Duke. I felt terrible about what I had done. I wanted to help the man. But Duke ultimately decided that we not do anything. We could have gotten into a lot of trouble. We could’ve been sent to juvie. That’s something that every kid needs to stay away from. Being locked up during puberty can fuck your mind in ways you couldn’t imagine. I know because I was locked up with guys that had been in and out of prison since they were early teens.
Without Duke being there that night I would’ve saved one life, but destroyed another. He saved my life. He guided me in the right direction. He would say “people die, but you never must”. Jesus, that guy was a modern day philosopher even then.
Oh shit- Here he is. Finally.
The crowd erupts as they watch him approach the podium. The smiles on everyone’s faces, I- I have no words.
Randall. Come join me on stage. He shouts to me.
This is the greatest gift I have ever had the pleasure of receiving. I wonder what he needs me to do. I’ll do anything. I have never had an honor like this. Even more-so than being allowed to take the hit for him so he didn’t go to prison. That was a vital sacrifice that must have been made to begin this organization. Without me doing that, Duke would have never been able to change so many people’s lives. To think- Wow.
Looking out onto this sea of people with my best friend. It makes me emotional. It’s a perfect Independence day.
Greetings Duke Clan members! He says electrically.
The crowd goes wild. You would think this was Woodstock. People partying, enjoying themselves. Wholesomely.
I have chosen each of you to be here specifically. You are all the most important, and esteemed members of my Clan. I couldn’t have asked for a better bunch. You all deserve this celebration of life.
The crowd cheers. I then notice some members of the clan beginning to walk with tubs of red liquid. It appears to be cranberry. Fuck. But I musn’t complain. Duke doesn’t like people who complain. Disobedience is one thing that is not tolerated in the clan. Duke knows what is best for each and every one of us, and we all musn’t forget that. If he says I must drink the concoction, I must drink the concoction.
If you look around you will see that I have provided the celebration with beverages. There is no alcohol in them so that your children can partake. If you wish to add alcohol, there is some vodka in the stable. Because we all know that the difference between a good party and a great party, is having memory of the night.
The crowd erupts in laughter. Man, I don’t think I’ll e
ver wake up from this dream. My life has never felt more fulfilled than this moment right now.
Then suddenly, he turns to me and covers the microphone with his hand.
Randall, don’t drink the concoction. I need you.
Okay Jim.
I am not going to ask questions. I will do as I’m told. I will always do as I am told. There is no point in wondering why I can’t drink the concoction. Perhaps it’s because he knows I don’t like cranberry. He truly is a great friend.
Now everyone follow me and raise your drink high above your head!
The sea of people raise their cup. Men, women, and children alike. The sun gradually sets behind this picturesque farm. I have no words. It just feels- right.
On the count of three we finish our drinks. We do this because of the necessary sacrifices we all must make in our lives. Even just your presence here today is a sacrifice. You all deserve this.
Three- Two- One.
Each and every participant in this crowd hold their drink high and toss it back with one tip of the glass. Everyone except for Duke. He just tossed his drink out on stage. That’s odd.
No- Do not question your leader. Never question your leader.
He turns to me and removes a note from his suit pocket.
Randall, I need you to do something very important for me.
Anything, Jim.
Take this note and bring it to RA. You remember where the Herring swims west, don’t you?
Why is he asking me to do this- Fuck. Stop it Randall. Listen to your fucking ruler.
Okay Jim. Right now?
Right now, Randall.
Why did he throw his drink away? I don’t understand why he would do that. Jim loves to drink. He always has. And now with the note? This is not what I was expecting at all. There was no ceremony. No monologue. Just a toast. But the people are happy-
Suddenly, a woman in the front of the crowd starts choking violently. As if her own body was suffocating her. Her face turns violet and her eyes water. She crumbles to her knees. People around her now notice this and run to her aid. She starts screaming violently and begins to hold her stomach as tight as possible.
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