The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  “What do you mean? I don’t know you!”

  “Oh yes you do!” he’d sung. “Why, we went to Smithtown High together—graduated the same year, in fact.”

  She had stared at him hard before speaking again. “I don’t remember you, then. What’s your name?”

  Stanley had been impressed with how relatively cool Marsha was being, given the circumstances. Either she was the naivest bitch on earth or had nerves of steel. Did she even suspect that she would be dead in less than twenty minutes? Had it even crossed her mind?

  “Oh you remember me—trust me on that! I was the one that you and your little girlfriend, Sara Hunt made a total fool of at the basketball game. Remember that, Marsha?”

  Stanley watched her strain to recall and for a moment it looked like she was making the connection. But then she disappointed him.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Funny how something so goddamn traumatic to one person can be nothing more than a trivial, unmemorable moment to another. Well, let me refresh your memory, Marsha. You’re at the ball game in the bleachers watching the Trojans getting murdered as usual on the court. You and Sara Hunt motion me to come over to you. Then you both commence to lay the biggest pile of bullshit imaginable on me. You tell me that Ann Middleton wants me to ask her to prom. That she in fact has the hots for me and knows I’ve been wanting to ask her out. That I should go down to the sideline right that moment and ask her to go. Starting to come back to you now?”

  The look on her Marsha’s face was even richer than before. Suddenly it had sunk in—she had made the connection. But she was still a tad confused.

  “But that was Stanley Jenkins we did that to. You are not Stanley Jenkins.”

  “Oh, but I am, dear Marsha. Behind this handsome face with the winning smile lies the heart and soul of Stanley Jenkins. And Stanley, I’m afraid, has a little payback for you. For all of your kindness at that game.”

  “Jesus, you’re really Stanley Jenkins? No way!”

  “Yes way. Never underestimate the possibilities of plastic surgery, Marsha. And dedicated body-building. Endless, really. I am living proof.”

  “God, I’m so sorry, Stanley! We were just kids back then, playing a little trick. That’s all! Please forgive me!”

  “A little trick, you say? Really? Do you have any idea how humiliating that little trick was, Marsha? How embarrassed I was when Ann turned me down? Staring at me like I was some pathetic asshole stupid enough to ask her, the most beautiful chick at school, out on a date? Do you have any fucking idea, bitch?”

  The fear in her eyes right then had been worth the price of admission. That was when Marsha realized she was in some very deep shit. And that she was now going to have to pay for what she had done to him so long ago. Dearly.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she asked weakly.

  “You should worry more about what I’m going to do to little Tommy, Marsha, if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “God, no! Please don’t harm my son! I’ll do anything you say, just promise me you won’t hurt Tommy!”

  “Now we’re talking. Have to say, I really don’t want to harm the little tyke. After all, he hasn’t done anything wrong—it isn’t his fault that his mother is such a bitch. So now I’d like you to remove your clothes.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “No!”

  “Don’t forget Tommy,” he sang.

  Stanley watched her expression change from defiance to reluctant acceptance—just like the others had. He recalled Cindy Fuller. How she had fought tooth and nail to disobey his commands until he had finally broken her down. She sure had been a fighter! Wasn’t going to strip for him if it killed her, which it ultimately had of course. But once Cindy finally realized that her refusal to comply was useless—that he was the one in control—she had finally relented, wearing the same face Marsha was wearing now.

  And then there was Sara. The spunky one! She had tried her damnedest to apologize for that night at the game—offering everything she had and more if he would just let her go on living her miserable life. Ha! He had let her go on like that for a while, while he pretended to actually be considering changing his mind, when all the time he was not. He had relished her look of liberation when he’d told her that maybe he was over-reacting after all—that he didn’t know what had gotten into him—that he was so sorry he’d frightened her like that. That he hoped she could forgive him.

  Sara had smiled graciously, so clearly relieved that he wasn’t going to harm her after all.

  And then he’d let her have it. He’d backhanded her hard with a right followed by a jab with his left, taking care not to assault the slut viciously enough to knock her out. Then he had grabbed hold of her firm tits and squeezed them as hard as he could. She had shrieked so loud that he was afraid the neighbors could hear over the music that was blasting on her stereo. Then he had pulled the sock from his pocket and stuffed it into her mouth, stifling her hideous screams.

  Stripping the girl had definitely been the best part of all. He had already seen her luscious body while spying on her from the rooftop the last few nights and now he was going to see it up close and feel her soft skin pressed against him. He ripped off her blouse and slapped her hard again when she tried to resist.

  A couple of smacks later he was pulling down her jeans and panties. She was damn near unconscious when he jerked her around and mounted her from the rear. Then she had suddenly gone limp like a wet dish rag, causing Stanley in turn to go limp as well. He had gotten so pissed that he decided to kill her right then. He pulled out the knotted lamp cord, placed it around Sara’s neck and pulled as hard as he could until she was gone.

  Afterwards he took out his trusty Polaroid and went to work. He’d studied painting in Paris and amazed himself at what a natural he was. His instructor in fact had told him that he was a latent talent—somebody born with a natural eye for art but hadn’t realized his artistic potential until later in life. This, Stanley could blame on his parents. They had done nothing whatsoever to nurture him in anything beyond eating and digesting facts and figures while growing up. Unlike other kids, he had spent most of his childhood with his face buried in a book. His life had been predestined from the beginning for him to be a fact-finding, problem solving loser-nerd. To hell with art, his parents so wisely thought. Our son will be a brainiac!

  Thanks, folks. Thanks a lot.

  After setting up his camera, Stanley had knelt down, turned Sara on to her back and began posing her body. He spread out her arms and her legs in such a way to make her resemble a sort of fallen angel. He turned her head toward the camera, pleased that her big blue eyes were still wide open. She in fact looked gorgeous in spite of her bruised, battered body.

  Not long after killing Cindy Fuller, he had decided that he would paint a composite scene of the three dead women after things settled down. While looking at his Polaroids of Cindy afterwards he had realized that something was missing in the composition. There she was lying flat on her back, arms outstretched, legs spread, a look of horror in her beautiful eyes. But the shot lacked something to tie the scene altogether. Something that would not only make the shot look stronger compositionally, but would sum up the story.

  Then it had hit him: a message! A message written in bright red lipstick on Sara’s breasts. Stanley had pondered this for several moments, trying to think of what the message would say. Then it came to him in one glorious flash of genius. May Day! It was perfect, for it not only expressed the final desperate plea for help the girls no doubt uttered inside their lovely heads, but it symbolized Stanley’s day of liberation from the nuthouse!

  He took out the lipstick vial, uncapped it and rotated the tube. Starting on Sara’s left breast he carefully scrawled the letter M. Staring at his handiwork, he was thrilled with how bold and dramatic the crimson looked on the curve of her tit. It really popped. He drew a letter A and had just finished the Y when he suddenly heard someone beating like mad on the apar
tment door. Frozen in place, Stanley wondered who it might be.

  He heard beating on the door again. “Turn that goddamn racket down!” a man’s voice roared from behind the door. “I’m gonna get the super if you don’t turn that shit down right now!”

  Stanley waited a moment, debating what to do. Then he sprung up, ran over to the stereo, lowered the volume and went over to the window. He quietly slid it open, stepped out on to the fire escape and stood off to the side. He remained there for several minutes, anxious to see if the super would show up. If he did, Stanley would be forced to sprint down the fire escape and hang-drop ten feet on to the sidewalk. His chances of getting caught would be great and being seen by somebody who could identify him even greater. Not acceptable. He crawled back in through the window, took a couple of quick shots of Sara’s body, gathered up everything and headed toward the door. He peered through the peephole, relieved to see that the hall was clear and hastily exited Sara’s apartment.

  Stanley killed his beer as his thoughts returned to Marsha Bradley. After nearly bungling the whole mission at Sara’s New York apartment, his time with Marsha had more than made up for it. He had not only totally subdued her without so much as a scratch on her lovely body, he had humped her but good and left his creative signature in its entirety on her boobs! And sticking the lipstick vial up her twat had been such a wonderfully spontaneous finale!

  He recalled later taping the Polaroids on his easel and his initial sketching of what was to be his masterpiece. He had originally decided to put Sara on the left, Cindy on the right and Marsha in the middle—the logical choice since she was the only one fully branded with the May Day icon. Then he had decided to take artistic license and inscribe the other two dead girls as well for a more balanced effect. This had been a stroke of pure genius he realized in retrospect.

  He’d decided to title the finished painting The End of an Era, symbolizing his new life and the past he had left behind. He had gone full circle. At last he was free to move forward and spend the rest of his life with the woman of his dreams. The woman he had always loved, always worshipped. The woman who would at last make his life worth living.

  Ann Middleton.

  Stanley shut his eyes and felt the room begin to spin. The pure rage he felt now was nearly uncontrollable and it took everything he had to remain still and not smash somebody in the face as hard as he could with this bottle.

  The End of an Era, my ass! he thought. Life Goes On was more like it. His plan for a new life had been absolutely snuffed out. What had seemed like the end of his suffering had only been the beginning of even more suffering. He had not only failed to win Ann’s heart, he had been cuffed, tried and convicted and thrown into a cell for the rest of his life. And while he stood here feeling sorry for himself, the woman of his dreams was back in Smithtown living happily ever after with her former husband!

  Oh what he wouldn’t give to make her pay! Pay for all the pain she had brought to him. She was just like the others—one big fucking fake! A two-faced bitch like her dead friends, staring down their noses at Stanley Jenkins like he was the biggest loser that ever roamed the earth!

  Gotta get a grip. Get a handle on this, Stanley. Live for tomorrow. Get where you need to go and then—and only then—can you even consider seeking revenge.

  Stanley opened his eyes, feeling his rage start to dissipate. He was even able to force a smile. It ain’t over till it’s over, right? That’s what they say. And truer words have never been spoken. He drained his beer and headed for the door, impervious to everyone in the bar. He would go back to his hotel room, turn on the tube and relax for the remainder of the night. And then tomorrow morning he would meet the dude who was going to make his passport. After that was done he would book his flight to Paris, cross the big pond and begin life anew in Europe.

  He could hardly wait.

  Life is good.

  Chapter 12

  Sam awoke for the second time that morning at around seven o’clock. He had been up most of the night, finding it nearly impossible to get back to sleep thinking about the horrible dream he’d just had. Not only had it seemed incredibly real but he was concerned about its ramifications. Was it feasible that Stanley Jenkins would go after his daughter? Were Amy and Hannah safe at their home in Columbus? What could he do to help insure his family’s safety?

  He arose and headed to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. While waiting for it to brew he grabbed his iPad and searched for Twig Hollow Road on the west side. No such road existed. He went over to the landline phone and pressed the caller ID button. He hadn’t had a call since yesterday afternoon from Roger. The call from the mystery man in his dream had never happened.

  He felt a little foolish even considering the notion that what he had dreamt was nothing more than a dream but he didn’t really give a shit—at least now he felt unequivocally reassured. His memory of the entire sequence of events was still so vivid in his mind it was scary. Most frightening of all was busting into that room and seeing his daughter’s dead body posed exactly as Marsha Bradley had been at the hands of Stanley Jenkins. He wished like hell he could get that image out of his mind.

  Pouring himself a cup of coffee he went over to the window and stared out. As he watched Smithtown begin to come alive the fact that he had actually quit his job the day before suddenly crossed his mind for the first time that morning. He was officially unemployed! The stark reality of that made him cringe as he questioned what he had done after his argument with George McNary.Had quitting the Observer been a big mistake? Did he really want to give up his career and security? Was he truly in a position to throw all of that away to become a full-time novelist?

  Hell yes!

  In fact, the more he thought about it the more convinced he was that he’d done the right thing. He hadn’t been happy with his job at the paper for years—mostly because of all the changes he’d seen happen that had eventually rendered the publication an ultra-conservative shadow of its former self. He had not only felt his hands were tied with his reporting but he didn’t like being part of the agenda its new owners had in mind.

  He powered up his iMac and opened his latest manuscript in Word. As he read the twelve pages he’d written the day before a smile came to his face. Not bad. He hadn’t been able to write that much in a single sitting in months. It felt good.

  Unable to put it off any longer, he gave Amy a call. When her voicemail came on he felt his pulse rise. Then thankfully she clicked in before the message had played out.

  “Morning, Dad!” she greeted.

  “Hi, honey. Everybody awake at your house?”

  “Oh yeah—Mark’s getting ready for work and I’m fixing a bowl of Froot Loops for Hannah. What’s up?”

  “Just wanted to check in and see how you’re all doing. I’m pretty much settled into this place now and looking forward to seeing you Saturday.”

  “Me too. And Hannah misses you like crazy.”

  “I miss her, too. So anything earth-shattering going on in C-bus? I saw on the news that you got some snow a couple of days ago.”

  “Yeah, just a dusting. I can’t believe that winter will be here in another month! You know how much I hate cold weather.”

  “I know all too well. I realized I’m probably going to have to park at the bottom of this driveway if it ever snows appreciably. The Jeep is good in the snow but whoever built the drive might have given winter navigation a little more thought.”

  “You’ve got to be the only person in town with a mile-long driveway!”

  “Not quite a mile but you’re right—it’s got to be one of the longest. And definitely the steepest.”

  “Here, sweetie, have some juice,” she said. “You at work?”

  Sam hesitated. “Uh, no. Actually, I’m not going in today.”

  “Oh, how come?”

  “I quit.”

  “You’re kidding! You didn’t really quit did you, Dad?”

  “I did. Got into it with my dickhead boss
again yesterday and that was the last straw. So I told him I’m outta there.”

  “Wow, that’s a shocker. I can’t believe it.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe but I have to say I’m happy about it. Your mother is probably turning in her grave, though.”

  “That’s for sure. I can’t count all the times you threatened to quit your job and Mom would always lecture you about it. How you couldn’t afford to quit because you had a family to raise and all that.”

  “And she was right—back then anyway. But things have changed for the worse at the paper and I’ve found it harder and harder to cope with it. It’ll be fine, and now I’ll have more time to commit to my writing.”

  “Well, I think it’s great, Dad. I’m proud of you for taking a risk and doing what you really want to do.”

  “Thanks, honey. I appreciate that.”

  “Can I call you later? I’ve got to help Mark get ready for work—he’s having trouble finding some paperwork he needs to take in today.”

  “Go help him and I’ll just talk to you later in the week. Take care, and tell Hannah that Papa can’t wait to see her!”

  “Hold on.”

  “Hi, Papa!” Hannah said.

  “Hi—how’s my little tadpole today?”

  “Fine. We still going to throw Frisbee?”

  “You bet!”

  “I can’t wait. Well, here’s Mommy.”

  “Talk to you soon, Dad. Love you,” Amy said.

  “Love you, too,” he replied.

  Sam was glad he’d called Amy. Hearing her voice was comforting and her reaction to his quitting the paper was encouraging. The last thing he needed now was a lecture on how irresponsible he was, and although Amy would never admit it, she was a lot like her mother in many ways.

  He decided to give Roger a call.

  “Hey there,” the detective answered.

  “Morning, buddy. Any word on that stolen Nissan?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just thought I’d ask,” Sam said, sensing the detective’s aloofness. “Well, let me know if you hear anything. You want to go out for a beer tonight?”