by Baker, Alex
Roofy lay down, facing away from Constance, and pulled the covers up. He was grateful for her sincerity, finding it to be a nice change from the constant insults he had left behind. If only he had found this earlier in life.
Constance turned off the lamp and lay down in bed. In the dark, she watched him as he fell asleep.
19
Grouped just outside the yard, which was outlined with barrier tape, at the Reiner house, two forensics unit officers updated Detective Laura Stenks on their findings at the crime scene inside. Curious neighbors stood in adjoining yards, and one reporter had shown up to scoop the story. Laura had quickly headed them off, asking them to not disclose any information to the public yet for fear that it may tip the murdered off to what they did or did not know.
The cooler night air nipped at the detective's legs, left mostly exposed by her short skirt, but she sported a department windbreaker to help stave the off the cold. It was one of the few times she found it a drawback to wear such lightweight blouses.
“That doesn't make any sense,” she said in disbelief and frustration, planting her hands on her hips.
One of the forensics officers, reading over the notes he had scribbled in a small notebook, responded to her, “Crimes don't have to make sense.”
“Still, a shirt soaked through with blood?”
“That's right. Just thrown over a hamper.”
Unnoticed by the three of them, two women were making their way down the street in their direction. One was in her forties, with shoulder length, dirty blond hair. The other was in her late thirties, with her tangerine colored hair up in a twist.
“Can't be hers, though?” Laura asked.
“Shouldn't be. It's dried. No way there's been enough time for that to happen. We'll know more once we get it down to the lab.”
“I hope that bastard is dead!” the woman with the dirty blond hair blistered, abruptly interrupting the three law enforcement workers.
The finger being stuck in Laura's face did nothing to make her want to help the emotionally shaken woman. Motioning to some nearby officers for assistance, Detective Stenks addressed the woman firmly. “Ma'am, who exactly are you?”
“That monster kidnapped my daughter!” the woman snapped, continuing her tirade.
“I'm going to need you to calm down,” Laura addressed sternly, matching the woman's intensity.
“Oh, God! He didn't kill her, did he?” the woman pleaded hysterically.
“See to her. Make sure you get a full statement,” Laura commanded one of the officers that had come over to help, and the officer escorted the sobbing woman off to the side.
“Can you please explain what this is about?” Detective Stenks asked the second woman.
“I'm Pamela Hiller. That's my neighbor...my friend, Mary Anne Kysta. She's Constance's mom,” Pamela said, concerned and frustrated at the detective's lack of sympathy.
“Detective, we're heading back into the house. We'll let you know what else we come up with.” The two forensics officers walked away.
Ignoring the comment, Laura kept her attention on the woman. “And, Constance would be the girl who was reported missing?”
“That's right,” the woman replied, impatiently. “I saw Mr. Reiner take her from her house.”
“He broke in and took her?”
“Well,” the neighbor replied, a little more sheepish, “no. She walked out and got into his car.”
“Walked out? Was he holding a weapon?” Laura asked, exasperated.
“Uh, no. He had a cigarette. And, I think she had a suitcase or something.”
“A travel bag?” Detective Stenks shook her head. “I'm going to have an officer finish getting your statement.” She motioned to the other officer to take over. The two women had provided her with a good enough excuse to pursue the other interests she had planned for the night.
Walking toward her car, Laura stopped by the scene commander, who stood next to one of the three police cruisers parked in the cul-de-sac. “Sergeant, it's all yours. I have something I need to take care of. Leave the report on my desk.”
“Will do. Goodnight, Detective.”
Laura got in her car and drove away from the Reiner home.
Close enough to watch the detective through binoculars, the figure with the laptop computer started his car. He slipped a fedora on, pulling it down to help hide his face, and closed the computer before moving the car, making sure to give Detective Stenks enough lead to not notice him as he followed.
20
The young, male clerk working the check-out counter at Other Self handed Detective Laura Stenks her bag. “Back again for another costume, huh?” He had recognized her as soon as she walked in and, despite the frigid attitude he had received from her before, decided to flirt. There was something about her that told him she was that type of woman. “You enjoy dressing up?”
“What's your name, young man,” Laura asked, as if interrogating a witness?
“Anthony.” He twirled one side of his handlebar mustache.
“Well, Anthony,” Laura stated, shooting him down bluntly, “you'll never know.” With that, she walked out the store, leaving the young clerk stunned.
“Still a bitch, I see,” he said to himself after the door has closed. Thanks for the big piece of humble pie. Why did she dress that way of she didn't want guys coming on to her. Tease.
Outside, Laura strode across the parking lot with a purpose. She threw the bag in the passenger seat of the car, before getting in herself.
Parked close by and behind her, the stranger watched her start the car and drive off. He waited patiently, allowing enough time to make sure she was out of sight, before he entered the store. It was not the first time he had been here. Recently, he had followed Roofy Reiner to the store and witnessed him buying a UWA Claw mask. Not wanting to leave a trail at the store, he had ordered his own online under an alias.
Inside, the clerk, with his back to him, straightened the display items sitting on a shelf behind the front counter.
“Can I help you?” the young man asked, perturbed, without turning around.
“I believe you can, my friend.” The stranger's accent was thick.
“Be with you in a second.” The young clerk found himself trying to figure out where the man was from, but he was unable to place the sound of the voice. Finishing his task, he was surprised to find the intimidating figure staring at him.
The man had an imposing sized frame. He wore a gray fedora, pulled down low, with shoulder length salt and pepper hair coming out from under the back of it. A long trench coat covered most of his body, except for the jeans and boots he wore.
Other than the thick, musky smell, it was the stranger's eyes that had Anthony's attention, though. Almost solid black irises, with just a hint of color around the outside, refracted the light, giving them a glazed-like appearance. The young man found himself mesmerized by their animal quality.
The man lay two fifty dollar bills out on the counter.
It got the clerk's attention instantly. As fascinated as he was with the eyes, green trumped everything.
“I need some information. I want to know everything you can tell me about the woman who was just in here.”
“Sure. Let me grab a copy of her receipts,” Anthony replied with the satisfaction of comeuppance.
21
“Damn, that's hot,” the man, athletically built and in his early thirties, said. He had short, cropped, blond hair and wore clothing meant to impress at the nightclub that Detective Laura Stenks had just picked him up from.
It was not his good fashion sense that interested Laura. Wearing a Red Siren costume, she held two lengths of pipe in her hands. Each pipe was hollow and had holes drilled into the ends, to accommodate rope being strung through it. Behind her, hung from a large hook attached to the ceiling, were a number of ropes. “Just make sure you do exactly what I told you,” Laura directed authoritatively.
“Don't worry baby. You'll be satisfi
ed.” With smug enthusiasm, he took the poles and went to work with the rope. The man ran the longer pole behind her neck and along her outstretched arms, tying her hands to either end. He then used the ropes from her wrists and neck to lift her up, leaving only her toes to touch the floor. That secured, he finished by binding her ankles to the smaller pipe.
Watching as the man searched through a paper bag that Laura left sitting out on the bed, Laura could not help but be hopeful. This one showed promise, having actually followed her orders, so far. Maybe she could make it through the event without having to raise her voice. She found the idea of posting an ad on Craigslist amusing. With her luck, though, her boss would answer.
Her flavor-of-the-night faced her, having finished retrieving what he was looking for. In one hand he held a generous sized, translucent pink dildo and a bottle of lubricant in the other. “Hope your back door is ready, baby, because you are getting all of this.”
“Wait.” It occurred to the detective that she had forgotten something. No piece could be left out. It had to be perfect to complete her fantasy. She had spent too much effort and risked too much to not get what she wanted; what she needed. She strained against the ropes, which were tight enough to make her breathing forced but not enough to choke her out, to speak. “The gag.”
The man took a quick look around the room, sex toy wobbling back and forth in his hand. “Oh, yeah. Where is it?”
“Shit. It's in my purse,” Laura replied, irritated with herself.
Before she could suck in enough air to speak again, he transferred the adult toy and lubricant to one hand and, with the other hand, dumped out the purse on a small end table. The items piled up on the wooden stand: lipstick, wallet, keys, loose change, cell phone, feminine hygiene products, and, landing on top, a badge.
“Holy shit! You're a cop!” the man said, panicked.
Laura managed to get out a “Hey”, but it fell on deaf ears. There was nothing she could do to stop the catastrophe from unfolding.
Running for the door, her boy toy tossed the purse, dildo, and gel behind him.
Detective Stenks watched helplessly as the door slammed shut. “Oh, great.” She rolled her eyes with disgust. “Dumbass.”
22
Waking up, Roofy pushed off the covers and leaned up on one arm. A small bit of morning light filtered in around the motel room window shade.
“Good morning.”
The cheerful voice had come from right behind him in bed. Turning sharply, the big Russian saw Constance propped up on her elbow, with her head resting in her hand. The covers hung loosely around her, exposing her unclothed upper body. “Der’mo!”
Constance laughed as the ex-wrestler ungracefully fell backwards off the bed, his feet flying in the air.
Roofy got up to his knees and leaned on the side of the bed, rubbing the back of his head. “Where are clothes?”
“Sleeping clothed is unnatural.” Constance sat up on her knees, with her feet under her. Slowly, the covers slid down, revealing her nude form.
“Votetoda,” Roofy said softly. Intensely aroused, he found it impossible to look away from her. He wanted to. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, but no matter how hard his brain signaled for him to turn around, his body would not respond. He knew what was coming, and he was not sure he could stop it.
“I'm young,” she said, “and youth is beauty.”
The big man stood up, slouching a little. Her innocent playing was lost on him, though, as the intensity grew.
Overcome with savage lust, he tore off his boxers. “Youth will be gone soon! I will make you woman!” Hunched over, he crawled on to the bed.
The teen leaned back in a seductive pose, with one hand sliding gently over her breast. “Please don't hurt me...too bad,” she said, feigning fright. Grabbing her ankles and pulling her close to him, Roofy slid his penis inside of her.
Lying on the bed, back arched, arms above her head, Constance's body was racked with spasms. “Oh, God, Roofy!”
Gratified, Roofy continued to ravage her body.
“Roofy, you are so,” climaxing, Constance took a deep breath before finishing her sentence, “bleeding.”
Roofy, still standing beside the bed in his boxers, looked around embarrassed, stupefied, and mired in anxiety. Constance was no longer on the bed, though, as he watched her, naked, dig through her travel bag.
Constance had tried to get Roofy's attention, but he appeared to be in some sort of trance.
“Hold on. I'll get your towel.” Locating it, she pressed it against his face. “Don't worry, it happens to all men,” she said, trying to comfort the big Russian with brevity. “Here. You take the towel, and I'll get our stuff together.”
Roofy was conflicted with feelings. Concern, arousal, and shame all merged into one. Pulling himself together, he took away the blood soaked rag and checked his face. Confident the bleeding had stopped, he got dressed.
Within moments, they had loaded their baggage, checked out, and prepared to leave.
“Oh Jeeves, door please,” Constance quipped, standing by the passenger side of the red Mustang with her arms folded.
“Who is this 'Jeeves'?” Roofy asked, feigning ignorance.
“Some chauffeur you turned out to be.”
23
A cleaning woman unlocked the door to her next stop in her morning routine. Next to her was a cart filled with cleaning supplies. Printed on the side of the bag that held the dirty towels were the words Bramblewood Inn. Earbuds in place, music turned up loud, and door open, she backed into the room, pulling the cart as she went.
Across the room, Detective Stenks, hanging from the ceiling, watched as the cleaning woman almost slipped on the intimidating sex toy laying in the floor. Wonder how long it will take for her to notice.
“What in the hell?” the woman shrieked.
“Well. It's about damn time.”
24
The detective's office of the Richmond City Police Department was the central hub for resolving criminal cases in the city. Abuzz with activity: phones rang, officers brought in reports, and detectives came and went.
Amongst the many work spaces and filing cabinets, standing at her desk, was Detective Laura Stenks. The goings-on did little to interrupt her when she was engrossed in the paperwork.
“Wow. You look like shit, Detective.”
The condescending comment coming from Officer Patterson, however, worked wonderfully at drawing her ire. Thumbs tucked in his duty belt, he was in his early fifties, frumpy, and had a head that had been shaved in a bad attempt to hide a receding hairline.
“I'd tell you to kiss my ass, Officer Patterson, but the thought of you touching me at all makes me want to puke,” Laura fired back.
“Looks like you've been touched enough for one day,” Patterson said smugly, nodding towards the bruising and rope burns on her neck and wrists.
“Just give me the info.” Laura wondered if a baton beating would be lost on the oafish officer.
“We ran your boy's credit cards. Latest uses are at a gas station and motel in Memphis.” He tore a sheet of paper from a notepad, he had removed from his pocket, and handed it to her. “Not exactly hiding where he's going. Even you should be able to find him.”
Ignoring the officer as he walked away, Laura leaned back against her desk, studying the information.
“Not like you to be late, Detective.”
Recognizing the Chief's voice, Laura faced him and stood at attention.
“You look like shit,” Chief Epps said calmly.
“That's the consensus.”
“Hear our wrestler has added kidnapping to his list of charges.”
“Yes sir. Things still aren't adding up, though. Too many contradictions.” Laura sat the notebook paper on the stack of other papers on her desk. “He leaves no evidence at the first crime scene...”
Chief Epps finished the sentence for her. “...yet he leaves a bloody shirt in plain sight at the next one.”
“Exactly.” Laura pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “Then, this supposed kidnapping with no attempt to cover his tracks and an apparently willing victim.”
“He's still a prime suspect, and we still need answers. All we have is speculation at this point. Even if he didn't commit the murder, he may be an accomplice or know who did.” The Chief walked past her, headed to his office. “Track him down and get him back here.”
“Yes sir.”
“Oh, and detective,” paused a few steps away, Chief Epps teased, “you might want to put that hair back down. Cover those rope marks.”
“Sir,” Laura acknowledged, embarrassed.
25
The Ten Pound Burger, located in Fort Smith, Arkansas, was not known for its healthy menu. It was the epitome of quantity over quality. Any person that could consume one of the restaurant's oversized house special hamburgers, in forty-five minutes, got their picture on the wall. There were currently only five photographs in that ring of honor.
Inside, Roofy was biting into a large burger, while Constance swished a French fry around in ketchup.
“So, that's how I got Robert Plant to sing at my sixteenth birthday.” Finishing her story, she ate the ketchup soaked fry.
“Da, 'Back in USSR',” he said, still chewing his food.
Roofy's cell phone, which was sitting out on the table, vibrated.
“Wrong. That's Paul McCartney. You know – the Beatles,” Constance said, hands thrown into the air.
“Who are Beatles?” Roofy asked, playing confused.
The cell phone vibrated.
“Oh stop,” Constance replied, laughing.
The cell phone vibrated again.
Roofy took another bite of his burger, ignoring the phone.
“That might have been an important call,” Constance said expectantly as the cell phone displayed a missed call message.
“Perhaps,” the Russian dismissed, sipping his drink.
The teen leaned forward on her elbows, with her chin resting in her hands. “Maybe it was your wife.”
