James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  “Takes a special kind of bastard to do that to a man of the Lord,” a uniformed officer said.

  Reid stood in the hallway, just out of their vision. Theo Barrett was slumped over in a chair next to the sink. Sidney Barrett was face down on the linoleum floor with an orange extension cord wrapped around her neck. Jill leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “Why did you tell the sheriff about the priests?”

  Reid whispered back, “Giving him a little info got him off our backs. The reality is Sidney Barrett is no good to us dead. We are only here to look for a sign from Wallace.”

  “And what are you going to tell Wells?”

  “He already knows more than the FBI. I think that’s enough. Look for any type of message.”

  “Got something,” a short-haired woman wearing a black hoodie with the words Crime Scene Unit written on it said as she leaned over Sidney Barrett's lifeless body. “Full set of prints on the murder weapon.”

  “I’ll distract them. You look for any message Wallace may have left.” Reid cleared his throat, startling the medical examiner and the officer, who spun around with his hand on his holster.

  “Whoa, Quick Draw,” Reid held up his hands.

  “Who the hell are you?” the officer asked.

  “Why, that’s Reid Hoffman, in the flesh,” the medical examiner said, extending his hand.

  Reid looked at the gloved hand, but didn’t shake it.

  “Who?”

  The medical examiner shook his head and laughed. “Sorry,” he said, pulling off the latex glove and tossing it to the floor. He extended his hand again. “Dr. Henry Marshall.” This time Reid shook it. “Levitt, this is the man that helped catch Gacy.”

  Officer Levitt smiled. “Yeah, OK, I saw you on 60 Minutes. How the hell did you get here so fast?”

  “I was in the neighborhood. What do we have here, Marshall?”

  Dr. Marshall recounted the incident as he saw it while Jill roamed freely around the crime scene. There was nothing in the kitchen that pointed to Wallace. She slipped back into the living room and saw a pocket Bible on top of a stack of mail. The Bible had a frowning face drawn on the cover in red ink. Jill picked it up, noticing a page turned down being used as a place holder. The book was marked at Romans 14, the following was underlined “Why do you pass judgment on your brother? Or you, why do you despise your brother? For we will all stand before the judgment seat of God.” God was marked through and replaced with the words “Morning Star".

  Jill looked over her shoulder. No one was paying attention to her. She slipped the Bible in her back pocket and returned to the kitchen. She bumped into Reid. “Sorry.” Jill shot a subtle wink in his direction. Reid got the hint.

  “Anyway, that’s how I see it. I think it has to be someone from the church. These assaults were of a personal nature,” Dr. Marshall said. “Maybe the reverend promised something God couldn’t deliver.”

  “Sounds like you’re on the right path,” Reid said. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make a call.”

  Captain Wells was at the front sidewalk talking to reporters. Reid and Jill used a row of bushes as a shield to avoid being seen as they made their way back to the car.

  “I take it you found something,” Reid said, slipping into the driver’s seat.

  Jill pulled the pocket Bible from her jeans. She handed it to him through the window. “Flip to the turned down page.”

  Reid read the highlighted passage.

  “This is what gets me,” Jill said, positioning herself in the passenger seat. “Wallace has been so set on staying invisible, why is he leaving all these clues now? The fingerprints?”

  Without taking his eyes away from the book, Reid said, “The fingerprints aren’t his.”

  “Ok, well, why allow his accomplices to be so clumsy? Doesn’t he know that the cops will find them? They both have records, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Not accomplices. Patsies.” Reid closed the Bible and placed it on the dash. “Brothers? That’s the clue. What does he mean by that?” He looked at Jill. “Sidney Barrett was the only sibling, right?”

  “Unless the mother’s adultery led to another kid. There's only two kids I know about. One’s in there on the floor and the other one is leaving you love letters,” Jill paused for a moment to silently congratulate herself for the witty comment. “So, Wallace is just using these people?”

  “To advance his cause,” Reid said. “Just like he uses everyone that comes in contact with him. The man is a parasite. Lick and Cline are just hosts to spread his disease.”

  “And he doesn't think anyone will get the Morning Star references?”

  “Cops don’t believe in ghosts. If anyone ever put the clues together, they would look for a copycat. Serial killers don’t lie dormant for thirty years.”

  “So, these messages are just for you?” Jill asked.

  “Wallace thinks he’s playing a game with me. He’ll get off on the news coverage and wait with anticipation for the mention of this,” Reid grabbed the Bible. “To him, this is a secret code that only I will know. Too bad there will never be a mention of this on the news.”

  Jill smiled. “I’m pretty sure stealing evidence is against the law.”

  “I stopped caring about the law a long time ago,” Reid said, starting the car.

  Twenty-Four

  Bluefield, West Virginia

  “You really got to stop lying to me, Pops,” Hella said, dangling her bare feet out of the window again. She moved her toes in rhythm with the Janet Jackson song on the radio. There was only one other car at the rest stop and judging by the orange abandoned sticker on the back window, the owner was long gone.

  “I don’t recall lying to you, my dear,” Norman said, breathing in fresh air through the back window. “Isn't it beautiful? Another season is about to die. Soon the leaves will change colors, shrivel, and fall to the ground. Death is a cruel mistress, but I love her so. I must keep doing her work.” Norman inhaled again, this time it was followed with a cough. “That cough, could be cancer. Never smoked a day in my life, but you just never know. Euripides once said, ‘No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow.’ Only death knows the answer to that. And that my dear, is this world’s greatest power.”

  “Yeah, well, you did lie to me,” Hella said.

  “It’s not my fault you do not ask the right questions, dear. I stand by my statement that I’ve never lied to you.”

  A loud bang wrestled Hella and Norman’s attention away from the conversation. At the vending section of the rest stop, Sanford was slamming a snack machine into a concrete wall.

  “I’m really surprised Death hasn’t snuck up on that science experiment. You’ll never convince me that he remembers to breathe on his own.”

  Sanford punched the glass on the front of the machine causing it to spider web. “You’re not keeping my Nabs.”

  “Sanford is a good man,” Norman said. “A little unorthodox, maybe. Sun Tzu believed that to build a strong army you should treat your soldiers as your children. If you treat them like your own, they will follow you anywhere, even into Death’s cold arms.”

  “To be on the safe side, you better leave a trail of Doritos if you expect that oaf to follow you anywhere.”

  Sanford hit the machine again. This time breaking through the glass. He reached inside and grabbed the pack of Nabs that was stuck. Before leaving he stuffed his pockets with chips and cookies.

  “Where to next, Pops?” Hella asked.

  “Virginia. It's time to put an end to a sibling dispute.”

  Sanford plopped down onto the driver’s seat. “Want a Nab?” he asked Hella.

  “I’d rather eat three-day-old tuna fish from the mouth of a dead man than consume anything that’s touched your grubby paws,” Hella said.

  “Suit yourself, whore,” Sanford said, stuffing two Nabs into his mouth before singing along with Janet Jackson about nasty boys.

  Twenty-Five

  Statesville,
North Carolina

  “Turn left, should be on your side of the road,” Mack said.

  I leaned my body toward the window, hoping my movement would help shift the rental Escort in the direction I needed it to go. Driving the thing was a constant struggle between the steering wheel and my knees. Being six-foot-five had its advantages, but that moment wasn’t one of them. I argued with Mack, saying he should probably drive when I saw the car, but he was adamant about riding shotgun. He said he needed to prepare for the scene. I had my doubt that was the case. He laughed every time I fought with the wheel to turn. The more I was around Mack; the more I learned he was, as my grandmother used to say, eccentric. He always had to have a pack of gum on him. It couldn’t be any gum. Had to be Doublemint.

  “That’s it,” Mack said, opening a new piece of gum.

  The small white house looked abandoned. Chips of paint clung to the siding, the walkway was cracked with the roots of an Oak pushing through the cement, and the grass was nearly knee-high. Dirt gave the windows a tinted look. Every blind in the front windows was lowered but broken. I parked the car on the opposite side of the street. A voice rang out as soon as Mack opened the car door.

  “He ain’t home.”

  We both turned to see an old man rocking in a chair on the front porch of the house to our backs.

  “Told the other cops the same thing. He ain’t been home in a long while,” the man said before spitting into a can.

  Mack walked toward the man. I followed.

  “Don’t wanna know what Richie did to get himself this kind of attention from North Carolina’s finest.”

  “We’re not cops.” Mack stepped onto the porch. The wood crackled beneath his feet. “I’m Mack Root,” he said, extending his hand to shake, “with the University of Tenn…” Mack pulled his hand back when noticing the man was missing his left hand.

  The old man held up his arm, which began about halfway up his forearm. He waved it. “Had a drunken fight with a wood chipper. Didn’t win.” He put the can down that he was using for a spittoon and offered his right hand. “Luther Martin.”

  “You say the cops have been to Lick’s house?” I asked.

  “Few times,” Luther said, picking up the can and spitting. “Never knew Richie to get in much trouble. But he started acting different when that weird man in the suit started showing up.”

  “Weird man in a suit?” Mack asked.

  “Yeah, probably my age, maybe a little younger. I figure he had a thing for Richie if ya know what I mean.”

  “How did Richie act differently?” Mack asked.

  “Used to stop by, just to shoot the breeze, ya know. Every once in a while, he’d get me some things I needed at the store. The essentials, ya know, like dip and Pabst. Never spoke to him after that man showed up. Hell, hardly ever saw him after that.”

  “What did the man in the suit look like?” I asked.

  Luther squinted and eased forward in his chair. “I’ll be damn. He looked a little like you,” he said, pointing to me. “Not as tall though. Gray hair. Trimmed beard. Fancy dude.”

  “When was the last time you saw Lick?” I asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know, sometime in the winter. Had a big snow around February. He was gone before then.”

  “Do us a favor, Luther. Give a yell if the cops show up, will ya?” Mack said. He winked and turned to leave.

  “Hey,” Luther said. “What kind of trouble is Richie in?”

  I looked at Mack, wondering what exactly we should tell the old man.

  “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I want to think of Richie as the guy that used to cut his grass singing them King, or was it Prince, songs.” Luther stood up and limped into his house.

  “Think the cops will show up?” I asked Mack as we started up Lick’s walkway.

  “Doubt it. No crime scene tape. Probably got all they were looking for already.”

  “And if they do?”

  “We run,” Mack said, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’m a pretty big deal. We will be fine.”

  The wood around the lock on the front door was splintered. The door was secured with a padlock. Mack reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a paper clip.

  “I’ll have us in before you can blink,” he said.

  I noticed the blinds were cracked and broken off near the bottom of a window. I pressed against the glass and lifted. There was a crack, like old wood splintering, followed by the window inching upwards. “This is faster.”

  Mack grinned. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Vantage point,” I said. “I saw the blinds were damaged. Figured maybe squatters were using the place.” I stuck my head through the window. The heat slapped me as if I were sticking my head in an oven. I gasped. The hot air wasn’t what took my breath away. It was the smell of excrement. The odor was so strong I fell back out of the window onto the porch.

  “What’s wrong?” Mack said.

  It took a few moments before I could open my mouth. I had to let the smell dissipate. The word ‘odor’ was all I could muster.

  “Water’s probably turned off.” Mack laughed. “I bet that was rough. Here.” He handed me a small container of Vick’s Vapor Rub.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Rub it under your nose. It will help with the smell.”

  I dabbed a little of the cream on my top lip.

  “You’re gonna need more than that,” Mack said. “Get a scoop. Don’t worry I have more.”

  I caked the cream under my nose which began to tingle. I handed the container back to Mack. He put it in his pocket and stuck another piece of gum in his mouth.

  “You’re not going to use any?” I asked.

  “Nah. I’m used to it. I carry this for rookies like you.” He patted me on the shoulder and went through the open window.

  The wooden floors were littered with empty Styrofoam take-out boxes, liquor bottles, and drug paraphernalia. In the kitchen, the refrigerator door and all of cabinet doors were open. A half-eaten container of rice from a Chinese take-out sat on the stove. Flies circled the box like vultures over a carcass.

  “Looks like someone needs to make a grocery store run,” Mack said.

  “I’m not too confident that we will walk away from here with anything other than nightmares,” I said.

  “This is child’s play to some of the things I’ve seen,” Mack said. “Want to talk about nightmares. Imagine coming up on a body, torn in half, stuffed in the trunk of a car, for a week, in Tampa heat.”

  The image hit me like a stiff shot of dark liquor. The first swig always tickled my gag reflex. I fought back the dry heaves as we entered a bedroom. There were no blankets on the bed, just a soiled mattress. The stench was so strong that I wanted to drown myself in the vapor rub. Mack searched the room unaffected by the odor.

  “You really can’t smell that?” I asked.

  “Oh, I smell it. But when you’ve smelled a corpse that’s been left to decay in a storage locker under the hot, Texas sun, this is like…”

  “Let me guess...child’s play,” I said, covering my mouth, convinced that Mack was trying to make me vomit.

  “We have a winner.” Mack bent down and lifted a shoebox from the floor. He sifted through the contents — papers and photos. He stopped shuffling the papers. A puzzled look replaced the smirk. “Have a look at this.” He handed me a photo of Richard Lick wearing only a trench coat and a pair of tight black briefs. "What do you make of that?”

  “Well, it made me forget about the smell. So, I’d say it’s right up there with the vapor rub.” I started to rummage through a stack of albums next to a broken record player. Michael Jackson, Rick James, Cameo. I expected Lick to listen to thrash metal not R&B. I stopped at a copy of Prince’s ‘Dirty Mind.’ On the cover, the singer wore only a jacket, a bandana around his neck, and black briefs. I started to laugh. “Looks like I found the inspiration for that photo.” I handed the album to Mack.

  “Prince?”<
br />
  “The old man did say he liked to sing Prince songs. Or was it King songs?”

  Mack flipped the album to look at the back cover. A photo fell from inside of the record jacket to the floor. I reached down, as soon as my hand touched the picture, an unsettling shock raced through me like electricity. The photo was of two men sitting at a table in what looked to be a bar. One of the men was Norman Wallace. No mistaking it. The resemblance was undeniable.

  “What is it?” Mack asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Pretty close.” I handed him the photo. “That’s my father.”

  Mack turned the photo over. Written in black ink were the words, Larry and Norm. 1967. Photo by Anton. Mack flipped the photo to the picture side. “The man on the left is your father?”

  “Yep.”

  “The man on the right is Lawrence Oliver. He later changed his name to Xavier Priest and wrote a series of books about Satanism.”

  “What’s this have to do with Lick?”

  Mack picked up the shoebox and dumped it on the floor. On top of the pile was a birthday card. Inside was a note.

  April 30, 1976

  Today, son, on your sixteenth birthday, you deserve to know the truth. For years, the world has suppressed and tried to hide the truth. Religion is used as a tool to keep men slaves. If the truth were to reveal itself, a revolution would follow. Your mother is under the spell of false hopes and dreams. It’s why she’s kept me from you. There is no Heaven. There is no Hell. Satan isn’t a Devil. Satan is only a symbol. A symbol of freedom. Be free, son. Become your own man.”

  -Xavier

  “Well, things just got a lot more interesting,” Mack said. “I guess that’s the connection to Lick.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me that my father was friends with a Satanist.”

  Mack turned the photo over again. “Not just a Satanist.” He pointed to the writing.