by Baker, Alex
Danny was the more seasoned and took the lead, confident that Kyle had his back. Going in first meant it was his responsibility to check behind the door, while his partner swept the room. Satisfied they were in no danger of an attack from behind, Danny gave the signal to check the room.
The place was not well-kept, with clothes lying on the couch, a few used cups sitting out on the end tables, and various other items strewn around the floor. A small bar area separated the den from the kitchen, which had an entrance way from a hall that also lead back to the rest of the rooms.
“Clear.” The lead officer whispered and began moving cautiously into the dish laden kitchenette area, while the other watched the hallway. Two pet bowls sat in the floor, on a mat, near some cabinets. The words “Good Kitty” made it obvious what type of animal the owner of the house had, but Danny had not seen or heard the cat. Judging by the mound of uneaten food, he had a good idea why.
“Clear.” The lead officer uttered again and turned around to face his partner. “Who dresses like that on the late shift?”
“You mean Detective Stenks?” the Kyle asked as he continued to watch the hall.
Danny moved past him and began maneuvering slowly toward the bathroom. “Detective 'Skanks' is more like it.” He was careful not to talk too loud, although he was feeling confident at this point that there was no one else alive in the apartment with them.
The second officer let out a muffled laugh. “Like you're not jerking off to her?”
“Oh, I'd do her, alright.” Danny peeked into the bathroom.
Kyle covered him as he entered the dark area for inspection. “Good luck. I hear she's an iron tight bitch.”
The lead gave the clear sign, and the two officers moved to flanking positions outside the closed bedroom door.
“So, why does she dress like that then?” Danny whispered his question as he motioned for the second officer to open the door. The odor had grown so bad he was fighting back a gag with every breath and his nostrils burned.
Doing a silent three count to each other, the door was thrown open, and the lead officer rushed into the room, Kyle following close behind. They did not make it far.
“Oh, shit.” No matter how prepared you are, it’s never what you expect, Danny thought.
Outside the apartment, Laura continued questioning Walt.
“The young man was drunk, but he seemed harmless.” An animated speaker, the elderly man carefully coordinated his hand movements to emphasize key points of his conversation. “There was a big fella, though. Saw him through the peephole.”
“Describe him,” Laura directed, taking down key points in her notepad.
“Imposing. Wearing a Claw mask.”
The way Walt was trying to imitate the mask with his hands left Laura imagining he may try removing his own skin at any moment.
“Like that wrestler,” the old man continued. “You know, the one in UWA. He used to be champ. I used to go down to the arena and see those guys back in the day. You know, back before it got so commercialized. Back when Bright Boy Benny was wrestling. I'd take my son down to Hampton sometimes. We'd get front row seats. There was this old woman, well I guess I feel funny calling her that given my age...anyway, she would sit down in front and swat the bad guys with a rubber chicken as they came to the ring. The guys, they would stop and threaten her. Not really threaten her. It's all fake, you know. Just for fun.”
Detective Stenks was sure she was going to start tearing off her own face if he continued. Of course, he'll probably pass out, from lack of breathing, long before that becomes necessary.
The conversation was cut short by the lead officer, who had come out of the woman's apartment with a sense of urgency. “Detective, you better get in here!” Danny requested urgently, shoving the repairman aside as he exited the apartment.
“Stay right here, Mr. Simkowicz,” Laura ordered, heading quickly for the apartment. Thank God for death and small miracles. As she passed the officer, she slapped the notebook and pen into his hands. “Finish getting a description from that guy.” She would have felt bad for Danny, but she was too busy being relieved.
“Back here, Detective.” Kyle waved to her from beside the open bedroom door. Having turned the lights on, he returned his tactical flashlight back to its pouch on his belt.
“What do we have, Officer?” Holding her hand up like a surgeon preparing to operate, Laura slid a Nitrile glove on. She never could put them on without thinking about condoms.
“Bigger mess in there than my last marriage.”
“Surprised anyone would marry you,” Laura replied bluntly, pushing past him to get through the doorway. Behind her, the officer gave a disgruntled response, but she was already too engrossed surveying the crime scene to notice.
“Well, now.”
5
Roofy's garage was only a place to park a car in namesake. It has long since become too overrun with boxes, cluttered shelves, unused lawn care items, and work benches, transformed into places to store holiday decorations, to achieve the intentions it was built for.
Lying on a weight bench in the only clearing in the garage, Roofy pressed a weight burdened barbell. The seclusion of exercise in the cramped space had become his sanctuary. The burning in his muscles and the smell of sweat were his only connections to his wrestling past. In here, he still felt strong. In here, he could do the one thing he had always been good at: physical force.
The unseasonably warm Fall allowed for the sliding garage door to be left open, providing a steady stream of warm air. It also lent to Roofy's heavy perspiration, so he had stripped off his shirt, leaving just his shorts and sneakers. The damp shirt had been discarded on a nearby work table, accompanying a radio that struggled to play the sounds of Motley Crue at a high decibel. His favorite hand towel, the same one that he had carried with him when he left Russia and joined the UWA, hung from a height adjusting knob on the side of one of the posts used to hold the barbell.
“Dvenadtsat.” Counting out loud in Russian, Roofy's thick accent was accentuated by the strain of pushing up on the heavily loaded barbell.
“Pyatnadtsat.” With a final push, he forced the weights up and sat them into place atop the stands.
As Vince Neil belted out a tune about rocking with girls at Tattertails strip club, a shadow cut across part of the garage. Unnoticed by the wrestler, a figure, back lit by the light coming in from outside, had approached the garage and was watching him.
Squinting from the sting of sweat running into his eyes, Roofy grabbed the small towel and began wiping his face. Vision temporarily obscured by the cloth, he failed to notice the teenage girl who silently looked on until he was midway through sitting up. Surprised, he jolted forward and, with a loud “clank”, followed by an equally loud “Ow”, smacked his forehead against the barbell.
“Chto!” Tossing the small towel and making it to an upright sitting position, he cupped his throbbing head in his hands. “Son-of-bitch!”
“Rockin' it old school, huh?” The young woman asked, choosing to ignore the injury the large Russian had sustained.
One hand on his forehead and one reaching out to guide himself, Roofy made his way over to the radio and turned it off. “What in hell you doing here?”
“Watching you.”
His vision clearing and pain subsiding gradually, Roofy finally got a clear look at his guest. He immediately recognized her from Halloween night.
The petite, teen-aged girl was dressed for the warm weather, sporting a lightweight cotton outfit comprised of a t-shirt and short skirt.
“I'm Constance, by the way.”
“Fine. Yes.” One hand rubbing his head, the big man issued an irritated response. “I am Roofy.” Her short cut, light brown hair, gave her an older look, making it difficult for him to determine how old she might actually be.
“I know.”
“Yes. Um. Okay.”
The two stood and stared at each other. Roofy found himself feeling awkward and unsure of how to
approach the girl. There was something about here that seemed familiar, yet he was sue he had never spoken to her. Despite her playful demeanor, there was an ambiance of innocence and confidence to her. Struggling for what to say, he noticed his towel lying close to her feet. “Bend over and grab towel and throw to me.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?” He pulled his hand away from his forehead, revealing a bruise and small laceration.
“Because,” Constance responded matter-of-factly, “I'm not wearing any underwear.”
“Tpru!” Roofy turned his head sharply and looked off in the other direction. “Well...”
“I'm just kidding.”
With an exhale of relief, he turned back towards her. Roofy added mischievous to his list of descriptions for his guest.
“See.” Constance lifted up her skirt.
He turned sideways again, with one hand stretched out to block his view of her. “Tpru! Ne delay etogo!” Roofy used his free hand to cover his eyes.
Constance let her skirt down, and she stood patiently waiting. For such a big man, Roofy gave her the impression of a shy little boy, covering his gaze as if to avoid getting cooties. It was an endearing quality, and she had called it right. There was something in the look that they had shared on Halloween night. His eyes had told her that he was lost, like a square peg in a round hole; he did not belong where he was. Any man could visually grope her body, and she did not fault him for having checked her out. Was it not natural for the male species to desire young, attractive women? They had not just exchanged a stare, though; they had made a connection. Roofy reminded Constance of a person who was desperate to feel alive but was being suffocated. He reminded her of herself.
Roofy remained frozen.
Neither spoke.
Holding the towel out towards Roofy, Constance broke the silence. “Let's go for a walk.”
6
The nude body of Sarah Whent lay on an autopsy table in the Chesterfield County Morgue. A patchwork of deep purple and bluish-black splotches detail the trauma she endured to her abdomen and lower chest, and rope burns marred her wrists and neck, lending proof to how hard she had struggled to keep her life.
Nearby, a stocky pathologist, early sixties, white lab coat, and latex gloves, shoved aside the instruments he had worked with to make room for a place to write notes on a body diagram. The gray-haired man was fond of the latex gloves and never understood why people were so eager to switch to the Nitrile brand.
“What do you have for me, Scotty?” Detective Laura Stenks asked, clearly surprising the older Scotsman and causing him to almost dump the tray of scalpels and bone saws.
Removing his bifocals and placing them on his paperwork, Micky stuck his pencil in his coat pocket and turned his attention to his visitor. “Room full of dead people, Detective,” he joked, speaking in a Scottish accent that had thinned out due to growing up in America. It was a combination of that and his thick orange-gray mustache that had earned him the nickname “Scotty”.
“You're screwed when the zombiepocalypse starts.”
The show of humor, as dry as it was, from the detective was unexpected. Micky was sure he would see one of his cadavers come back to life long before he would have ever witnessed her making a joke. It was refreshing, though, and he decided to play along. With a mischievous grin and one eyebrow raised, Micky slid picked up a large cleaver from the tray next to him. “Maybe, Lass. Maybe not.”
“Nice.” Laura found herself wondering how someone could be so relaxed in a room full of corpses. “Is our dead superheroine talking?” She leaned over the deceased woman and began inspecting the body.
Back to business, Micky thought. He discarded the cleaver and began pointing to corresponding spots on the body as he spoke. “Oh yes. Got a lot to say, she has. There are clear ligature marks around the wrists, neck, and ankles.”
“From the costume lasso, I'd venture,” Laura suggested.
“Wasn't what did her in, though.”
“The beating took the Amazon princess out?”
“Nasty bit of business, eh.” Micky, tilted over the body, cut his eyes up towards Laura. “But, no, Lass.”
“May I?” Micky gestured towards Laura's police issue baton, and she took it out of the pouch on her belt and handed it to him. With a flick of the wrist, he extended the twenty-one inch steel-tubed non-lethal instrument and smacked his other hand with it. “Made those bruises with something like this. Hard. Blunt. Unforgiving.”
Laura rubbed her hand over the bruises. “Sexually assaulted?”
“Yes. And with this.” Micky collapsed the baton, handed it back to her, and picked up an evidence bag that contained something resembling a baseball sized, purple crystal.
“A crystal?”
Micky handed the evidence to Laura. “No, actually it's dyed glass. With very, intentionally, sharpened edges. Careful if you take it out. It will definitely cut you.” To emphasize just how sharp, he held up his hand, indicating a small laceration on his fourth finger.
For the first time she could recall, Laura could see a serious change in Micky's expression. He was a fairly happy-go-lucky guy, but what had been done to the woman had gotten to him. It was having a very different effect on her.
“I found it up inside her. It had been pushed in and out,” Micky paused for a moment and shook his head, “many times.”
The words fell on deaf ears, though, as Laura's mind had wandered. She scrutinized every detail of the body, captivated by the amount of control the attacker had over his victim. Leaning over the body without even realizing it, she could feel an intensity welling up. It was all about the control. Rape was not a sexual crime; it was an oppression. There was a feeling of power in dominating another human being. Almost any spirit could be broken, and the sexual factor only expedited the process. The superheoine costume had been a coincidental twist. She had watched Amazing Woman as a young teen. It had been on the night things changed.
Suddenly, she snapped back to reality. Control – she needed to maintain control. An intriguing idea came to her as she took one last look at the body; she decided immediately to act on it.
Turning sharply, she threw up a quick hand wave to Micky as she headed for the door, evidence in hand. “Always a pleasure, Micky.”
Micky, left alone with the body of Sarah Whent, gave the dead woman a nod. “You know, if I didn't know any better, lass, I'd say you turned her on.”
7
Going for walks had never been one of Roofy's favorite things to do, yet here he was accompanying Constance on a stroll through the neighborhood. Not that where he lived was the issue; he had always just pictured himself doing heavy lifting. On the contrary, the homes here were good-sized for a middle-class living, and they were larger than the cramped dwelling he had called home in Russia. Kate would not agree with him, though. She had been very critical of him when they were forced to sell the five thousand square foot small mansion after he lost his job with UWA. Of course, that had not been big enough to fulfill her endless needs, anyway.
Towering over the girl, Roofy shortened his stride so that their pace was the same. Occupying his nervous energy, he flipped his towel around in his hand as they continued down the road.
“So, you like being around big, sweaty men?” Constance teased.
Roofy provided her with a short, crass reply. “Sure. Something like that.”
“Oh, come on. Lighten Up.” Constance found the giant Russian's uncomfortable nature amusing. She also felt it was a transparent front for the person he really wanted to be. It was like a dog that had been abused by its owner, she just needed to earn his trust and show him that someone could care. She found the image of him with a wagging tail to be amusing. “You obviously liked wrestling, right?”
“I was good at it.”
“Were you?”
“Hey! You ever watch the TV?”
“So tense,” the girl giggled. Despite the tone of his response, Constance did not believe she
had really hurt his feelings. She was not here to coddle him either, figuring he did not need that any more than he needed someone to oppress him. “I'm sure you were great at it. Why don't you go back to doing it?”
“After what I did?”
“What,” she inquired wryly, “bored someone to death?”
Answering the big Russian's frustrated look, she gave him a big, cheesy grin. He could play angry if he wanted to; she still had managed to get him to open up.
“Khorosho. Have it your way. I was working program with friend in the business.” Roofy stared down at his hands as he talked. Holding his towel, one hand at each end, he twisted it nervously. He had always been uncomfortable speaking about his feelings and not just because of his struggle with the English language. Big men were supposed to be strong, and Kate had been all too happy to remind him that having feelings was a sign of weakness for a man. “Came time for the big spot. How you say...finishing move. Was going to be Apocalypse Bomb from top rope.”
“The mighty Mr. Apocalypse,” Constance interjected.
“Miguel was luchadore wrestler. His ring name was El Angel, and he had little wings on side of mask.”
Constance watched as the big man tried to gesture with his hands to the sides of his head, at what the wings looked like. She thought it made him look like a moose.
“We had beat each other up pretty good. The crowd was happy.“ Roofy felt melancholy as he continued the story, but he found the supportive look that Constance was giving him to be reassuring. “Miguel was good guy. Made you look good in ring.”
He hesitated for a moment, thinking about Miguel. The luchadore had followed a very similar path, coming from Mexico to join the UWA, but he had adapted to it faster. He had embraced it. “There we were, all set for big finish. Then it happened. Everything turn to black. It was like being in dream. I lose control, but my body...it keep going. I jump with him from top of rope. We, uh,” Roofy stopped for a moment as he searched for the right word to use in English, “crash, yes, through table where announcers sit. There was great excitement. These announcers, they did not know what to do. The crowd was in love with it. They thought, it is part of show.”
