9Chews

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  An hour later, I got the call that I wanted.

  “That wheelbase matched a Chevy Tahoe.”

  Why wouldn’t you know, that SUV I mentioned earlier was a blacked out, top of the line Chevy Tahoe—still had that factory shine.

  “It’s about time,” Harper said, with a thump of the dash. “Go in guns blazing.”

  He didn’t mean it. That was a figure of speech. One we’d adopted a decade or more ago. It replaced the more mundane, ‘Let’s go.’

  The hotel clerk recognized us as we came through the glass doors. His friendly demeanor quickly turned to close inspection and eventual whispers to his co-workers. He knew something was about to go down. Harper and I split up. He took the stairs and I took the elevator.

  It was his turn.

  I beat him up the stairs, but I waited. If he didn’t come through the doors, it meant he bumped into our suspect. We we’d already matched the plate to a driver’s license and had a good idea of who to expect. But someone suspicious would’ve delayed Harper as well.

  Only he wasn’t delayed and we strolled up to room 43 together.

  Most people in hotel rooms aren’t expecting unexpected visitors. Hence the term unexpected, that’s why we had our hands on our side arms. Surprise causes rashness, and though I’d done this a hundred times, it always felt like I was about to step off a cliff.

  Knock. Knock.

  We expected the delay in being answered, and a hotel manager had stormed his way up behind us. Perhaps to ensure we didn’t disturb his other guests. We acknowledged him and he just crossed his arms and tucked his chin into his neck with squinty eyes beneath manicured eyebrows.

  After a minute, I knocked again and introduced us.

  “Good evening, Mr. French, I am Detective Carlos Alonso with the Dell City Police. My partner and I just had a few questions for you. It will only take a moment,” I said.

  The hotel manager broke the silence with a long, drawn out sigh.

  “Should we kick it in?” Harper asked with a wink.

  The manager scurried up to our side.

  “I have not seen him exit all day,” the manager said.

  “You’ve been on watch all day?” Harper asked him.

  “Perhaps not all day. But Mr. French got in very late last night. Perhaps he is sleeping with a white noise maker or ear plugs, travelers are known to do that, even though the walls are quite thick here.” The manager was showing off his universal room key.

  He certainly didn’t want us to kick any door down.

  He cleared his throat and knocked on the door. “Mr. French, I’m afraid the police just need a moment to step into your room. I am quite sorry for the inconvenience.” He cringed and unlocked the door. He turned the handle and pushed it open.

  It was a surprisingly heavy door, and perhaps Harper would not have been able to kick it in.

  “Wait, don’t you all need a warrant.”

  “Sorry, judge emailed it. It’s in our car. I don’t have a printer.”

  The manager’s interest in bureaucracy faded as he saw what the swung open door revealed.

  A dead end.

  A man in his fifties was naked and face down. He looked as if he tried to work out, but also ate well. His body wasn’t that cold. There were no signs of forced entry, but the man had fought before being strangled to death.

  Harper shrugged when I looked at him.

  “This had to have just happened,” I said.

  “We weren’t exactly tipping on our toes when we started asking about the vehicles outside. This might not even actually be related.”

  “I get the feeling that it is.”

  I also had the feeling that it was quieter than it should be. I looked and saw the hotel manager slumped in the doorway. He had passed out.

  Harper’s intuition that this wasn’t related seemed far less plausible once we got back to the station and researched our dead person of interest. His name was Callum McKenzie. He could barely afford his decked out Tahoe. He was the general manager of an office supply store, and his credit history showed he’d been living above his means for some time, having inquired a bit of credit card debt over the last three years. That threw up a nice red flag, while not knowing his exact salary, one could deduce quite a bit from what credit cards dole out as a credit limit and what Google says is the average salary for a general manager. It almost seemed like he had a gambling addiction, drug habit (toxicology report could identify that) or perhaps an expensive lover as it seemed like his salary should’ve kept him out of debt.

  He did have his dick, which Harper also pointed out back at the murder scene.

  But the footage did show him arriving late at night.

  So the question was whether or not he had visitor just hours prior to us walking in.

  Harper volunteered to sift through the surveillance footage while I did some legwork canvasing McKenzie’s now former employees.

  I liked retail workers. I was once one of them so I felt like I knew how their mind worked. I knew they were underappreciated and likely to dish out the worst about Callum McKenzie.

  And I was right. The skinny pale and studious redhead at the copy center was quick rat him out for sexual harassment, racism and blackmail. Of course that didn’t fit any of my narratives that tied him to the scene of a possible cannibal cookout.

  But then she gave me a list of names of people that Callum McKenzie associated with—other general managers. I asked one last question before I moved on to the fifty year old shelf stocker.

  “You all ever have any employees who just stopped showing up to work?”

  “Christ,” she said. “Like fucking all the time. Cal’s like totally under the gun too. The District Manager is so pissed about the turnaround. But then I tell him its cause Cal treats us like shit, but does he listen? Nope. He just wants things to look good on the books. So he fucking told Cal not to update payroll. Just don’t schedule them. It looks better for their numbers, cause corporate hates turnover.”

  “Who was the last person not to show up to work?”

  “Oh fucking Robert Battle was supposed to be here today. Not me. This is my one fucking vacation day that I could afford to take, and Robert fucking knew that. What does he do? Oh that motherfucker didn’t even have the nerve to call out. He just didn’t show. So they’re all pissed, and I can’t deal with all these customers…” She rattled on and I remembered girls like her. They couldn’t handle stressful situations and while she hadn’t seemed on the verge of tears when I spoke to her, she was now, as if she expected me to put on an apron and jump over the counter and help her.

  Instead, I just said, “Thank you, Mary. I might be back later with a guy from the Better Business Bureau.” That almost started another conversation. But Harper called.

  I rattled off the list of names Mary from the copy center had given me.

  Harper said, “Shit. That was quick. And she said he parties with all of them real late.”

  “Yeah, and sometimes he invites employees. And sometimes employees stop showing up. I’ve got one other name. Probably need an address so I can swing by there before I come into the station. He didn’t show up to work today.”

  No one was home at Robert Battle’s. I wasn’t surprised. That detective part of me was elated because it meant I was on the right trail. With the right warrant, we could get the door open and prove he was missing or probably match some of the DNA to that of the severed penis sitting in the evidence fridge.

  I tried calling Harper on my drive back. But he didn’t answer. It was okay. I didn’t really need to call him since what I found was nothing, and nothing can usually wait. I was actually encouraged by the fact that he didn’t answer. It probably meant he was on the phone getting another lead.

  Of course, it would figure he wasn’t at the office when I got back.

  After a while, I asked our clerk, Rebecca, if she ever ran the names and addresses of the list I’d given Harper.

  “Yes. I gave him comple
te background checks.”

  “I don’t see them in his tray, did you email them?”

  “Oh, no. I handed them to him on his way out. He said it was extremely important.”

  It wasn’t like Harper to not tell me about a lead. But he was a few years my elder, and certainly didn’t need babysitting.

  “He rushed out of here?”

  Rebecca nodded. “I handed them to him and I think one of the photos surprised him. He practically knocked over the water cooler on his way out.”

  I called again.

  This time Harper answered.

  “No one is home at the Pace address,” Harper said. I was going to head to the Kidd and then the Haysbert address. What did you find at Robert War’s place?”

  “Battle,” I said. “Robert Battle. He’s missing and I was going to have you use your magic fingers to get me a warrant to search the place while you were at the office.”

  “I’m not at the office.”

  “I know,” I said. “I am now. So I’ll take care of that.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “Where were you going next?”

  “Uh… Haysbert.”

  “Text me the address and I’ll meet you there.”

  “10-4.”

  I hung up and went to call in a warrant, but Rebecca stabbed me with a stack of manila folders.

  “I made you copies as well.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Harper texted me the Haysbert address.

  I got the warrant to search Robert Battle’s place and fifteen minutes later I was on the road to meet Harper at the Haysbert place. It was in an up and coming district of renovated townhomes. Though, some of the homes had not received the facelift just yet.

  I texted Harper: I’m here. Where are you?

  He wrote back: 30 min still at the Kidd place. Wife home. She don’t know where he at

  Then I noticed something funny as I sat and waited. Only the address didn’t match the file. It was wrong by a block. I got out of my car and jogged up to the door. The name on the mailbox read: Austen, not Haysbert.

  I was at the wrong fucking address.

  I jumped back in my car and drove down a block. I cursed Harper. Though, he had big finger so of course the dyslexic lug head hit the 9 instead of the 6.

  There wasn’t a name on the mail slot—but who puts a name on a door with a mail slot?

  I looked around the block for Harper’s car. Then looked at my watch and realized he wouldn’t be here for another twenty minutes. I almost stepped back down off the stoop. When I heard a fucking crash from inside the town home.

  Instinct grabbed the doorknob for me. It was unlocked!

  I pushed inside, gun drawn.

  The lights were out and though the sun hadn’t set, the light did little to illuminate the long hallway and steep staircase. But sound guided me. There was a wrestling coming from the back of the house.

  I eased through the hall until an opening into a formal dining room. I didn’t know, but I assumed that the back had an exit. Of course it would. I didn’t identify myself. I could’ve but at the same time it felt foolish for being too late, and because it might encourage Kidd to take off running. I checked the dining room, it was clear, but through the doorway in it. I could see the shadow cast from someone out of sight in the kitchen. The kitchen that the hallway I was in would lead to as well.

  Then the person crossed that open doorway.

  It was Harper.

  He wasn’t standing. He didn’t just walk by the doorway. He was crouched, and dragging something. Someone.

  He stopped when the floor creaked beneath me.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here,” I said.

  Harper flipped a smile up then down. “You weren’t supposed to be here so quick.”

  “I see that now.”

  “When did you suspect me?”

  “Right now,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  “You said you wouldn’t be here for thirty minutes. You messed up the address on purpose. Why? What the fuck is going on, Harper.”

  “It’s not going to make a lot of sense to you.”

  “Did you know these people were cannibals?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know these people,” he said.

  “But that’s Kidd. He’s dead isn’t he?”

  “The complicated answer is yes, Alonso, but you have to let me explain.”

  “Explain? Did you kill McKenzie too? When I went and got my sub. You knew which vehicle was our suspect.”

  “I have a good reason,” Harper said. The way his eyes welled, told me I should listen and not squeeze the trigger, but the cop in me knew Harper was a fast draw and an accurate shot—best on the force. I used to remind my wife whenever she sobbed about how dangerous my line of work was.

  Harper’s eyes found that I raised my sidearm and took aim again. It was instinctual, habitual.

  “Are you going to shoot me, partner?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you tell me just what the hell is going on?” I demanded.

  Harper nodded, but he didn’t make any other movements. The slightest and the grip I’d put around that trigger would shake, that’s all I had to do to fire, and at this distance, I wasn’t likely to miss.

  “I’m sick,” Harper said. “I’ve known that since day one. That doesn’t change that I want it.”

  “Want it?”

  “Our suspects, your list—I knew all of them. I have to be honest, I knew you’d figure it out, but I was hoping by some miracle you weren’t as smart as I always thought you were. You’re a bright guy, Alonso. I knew I couldn’t beat you, but I had to try. You’re a hell of a detective.”

  “Are you telling me you’re a cannibal? You’re one of them?”

  Harper flexed his jaw muscles.

  I flexed mine back. “Why are you killing them then?”

  “Because there are rules, and they broke them. We should feel ashamed with what we do. We can’t change that we crave it, but even I know it’s wrong. Humans are naturally hypocritical, but wanting to bring this to the masses, to share our disease. I don’t want others to tread down my path. I always ate alone. That was the first rule. Never talk about it. Never. But these guys were having fucking cookouts. They were killing innocent people.”

  “Innocent people? Who the fuck are you killing?”

  “These are bad men. You saw my scars, Alonso. We would donate pieces of ourselves. It was supposed to stay small, voluntary. But this is out of hand. I’ve known that for a while now. It hasn’t been donations,” Harper said. “We crossed a line and need to die.”

  “So you’re going to kill yourself.”

  Harper winced in a non-committal way.

  “I suppose it’s not going to be easy for me. You’re my partner. I would’ve given my life for you.”

  “I know. I’m trying to remember that,” Harper said. “But I don’t see any other choice. If I’m arrested, if this whole story comes to light then it’ll be more than just a couple people in danger. You understand?”

  “How deep does it go?”

  “Deep,” Harper said quickly, like he didn’t want me to press further. “A lot more names on that list. It’s kind of how I know so many people. We all know each other.”

  “You’re going to kill all of them?”

  “Someone has to,” Harper said, “Don’t they?”

  “Then what? You’re going to disappear after this?”

  “Were you planning on letting me go?”

  I shook my head, though I still wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t shoot him in the face. But he was right about something, it went deep. This whole case was being covered up the moment I found that pile of shit. I kinda figured it didn’t matter if I shot Harper or not—I wasn’t going to walking out of here alive.

  Maybe it was just paranoia, or a neighbor’s radio. But I swear I could hear voices in the distance.

  All at once they were foreign and familiar.

  With
the revelation that Harper was one of these cannibals, it was possible that anyone, anyone in my entire fucking life could be a cannibal.

  My children, my wife.

  Harper was my partner. And while that might just be a label for the guy I work with, it was more than that. I always had this feeling that he was my partner in life. That we had chosen to hold each other’s fucking hands as we took this path.

  I swear to God, I knew Harper.

  Being wrong, being wrong this big was like I was a ferret who thought he could play Jenga in a China shop. Stupid me. It was about to get messy.

  “I was never going to bring you into this,” Harper said. “This is not how I wanted it to end. I’m a good person. I do this one thing wrong, but I want to make up for it. Haven’t I shown you that? Aren’t I a good fucking cop? We caught bad guys, Alonso.”

  “You lied to me. All these years.”

  “I didn’t lie, Alonso. I was god damned ashamed.”

  “You fucking should be,” I said.

  Christ!

  My heart soared into my throat for no real good reason. Harper had only settled back on his left leg, rather than continue to hunch over in a crouch. He hadn’t gone for his gun. But that moment revealed a lot more to me. I realized I didn’t shoot him when he moved. I flinched. If he had gone for his gun—I would’ve lost the draw. I’d be a piece of Swiss cheese. And being in Harper’s shoes, it would be best if I ended up on his next sandwich. A partner that goes missing is a whole lot easier to explain than one riddled with bullets. If this went as deep as he insinuated, his story wouldn’t have a lot of holes. I’d probably receive a posthumous medal of honor. The key of the city presented to my wife and child. A fucking parade.

  Harper shook his head, and sniffled. “I fucked up my priorities,” he said. Then he raised his head and looked me dead in the eye and said. “I won’t let those other bastards eat you.”

  Then someone clocked me over the head. I knew that because it took a couple of times before it was all over.