Justice Unserved

by Nadia Siddiqui

  He places the duffle bag on the luggage rack in his room and resists the urge to find the nearest vending machine. There will be one where he is going, but his stomach is on the verge of loudly protesting just how long it has been since his last meal. Nathan is supposed to be having lunch with a woman named Emma Claire while pretending to interview her for a local color piece on the rising crime rates. Really he is going to be pressing her for information about her father Archie who is a permanent resident at one of the senior living communities in the surrounding areas.

  This will provide him with a good reason to go inside without raising alarms. With any luck, since Emma has lived here her whole life, he will be able to talk her into showing him around a couple of the other locations as well for comparison purposes. Nathan’s company was able to get a hold of some very random video footage and he would like to see if he can figure out which clips came from which locations and if there is perhaps any other footage floating around there; though, as the bastard criminal has been this careful so far, it’s not overly likely.

  Only recently have there been any murders. Three private citizens in the surrounding areas that all died alone in their homes. Events were labeled natural causes even with their strange circumstances and having read the reports Nathan was a little confused as to how some of them could have passed for natural causes. One was found with ligature marks around her wrists and another had bruises all up and down his thighs. Not the broken blood vessels of the elderly but in handprint formations. Things like that weren’t caused from bumping slowly into tables or items as they passed, but they are indicative of something truly more heinous. And yet, the town’s coroner chose to ignore all of those facts. Nathan can’t wait to get to the bottom of that.

  Changing into the clothing that was provided for him, a simple cardigan to tie around his shoulders, fake glasses and a black T-shirt and slacks, Nathan heads with his pen and paper to the restaurant that was agreed on, a quaint little bistro where he is unlikely to find anything filling other than perhaps the bread bowl.

  Emma doesn’t arrive on time, something that she apologizes for profusely when she arrives. She is stumbling over her words and speaking a mile a minute. Nathan hardly has a chance to introduce himself before she’s carrying on further.

  “I knew who you were because you were the only person on the patio that I didn’t already know … so I mean it was a leap of faith maybe, but I had a good feeling.”

  True, the only other person on the patio outside is a waitress with gray plastic tubs of silverware and a large stack of white paper napkins that she is slowly folding and bunching all of the pieces together and then placing each new silverware packet into a third gray plastic container. This girl hasn’t so much as looked up at them once since before Emma even arrived.

  “Don’t mind her, everybody knows everybody here and she’s just content to mind her own business. I must say, Mr. Pettyfer, I’m so glad you could take the time to come down here and meet with me. I had no idea if you would or wouldn’t see my letter.”

  “I was really moved by what you had to say about your father; I felt this was the least I could do,” says Nathan, pretending to be Hank Pettyfer the ‘renowned’ enthusiastic exposé journalist. His company has done a great job in cultivating very elaborate backstories for his missions. Nathan has about a dozen personalities that have been all carefully thought out and planned and assigned to him. Hank Pettyfer is just one of those identities with fully researchable backgrounds. Nathan has never stopped to question how all of these things are possible because he has never been conditioned to be any more inquisitive than he has to be. Too many questions wouldn't be what the company want. They want obedient soldiers and, for the most part, Nathan is.

  “So, Ms. Claire,” he starts after their orders have been taken, pulling out his pen and paper. He clicks the pen slowly for dramatic effect, like he cannot wait to hear each and every single thing that she has to tell him. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about the crimes that have been taking place as well as why you have so much fear for your beloved father?”

  “Well,” Emma says softly, but she pauses to glance around to make sure that there isn’t anybody within earshot. Who she thinks might be spying on him Nathan can’t begin to guess. “There’s been talk around the nursing care facilities. My father and I used to be very close, back before his mind started to go. Over the years that I’ve spent there I have become very close with the nursing staff. You know, just bringing them cookies or flowers on holidays, the little stuff at first, but it’s nice knowing them by name and knowing that maybe because I’ve done that little bit extra that they are really looking out for my father. It’s really the least I can do.”

  “So they’ve started to confide in you?”

  “Well, I’m not certain if they are confiding in me so much as they don’t watch their tongues as much whenever I’m around. I guess I’m one of their ‘safe’ clients if you will.”

  “Alright, I’m following.”

  “Well, everybody has been following the papers and the grizzly headlines lately.” Nathan nods along to indicate that he too has read up on these headlines. Emma continues, “In a small town like this everybody likes to be in everybody’s business and so, naturally, all of the scary, horrible things become headlines and then they stay that way until the next horrible thing happens. Gives the otherwise bored people something to do I assume.” Emma shakes her head as if she cannot stand these sorts of people. “I never paid it very much mind, but then there were three robberies at the nursing home where Daddy is. It’s not like any of the people living there had many items of high financial value. It’s usually just the sentimental things that they are allowed to bring with them. Photo albums and the like.” Emma pauses when the waitress comes over with their drinks and starts to slowly sip at hers. She doesn’t speak again until the waitress is well out of hearing range. “So then the nurses have been saying that after each one the police are finding that all of their photos hanging on the wall with ‘eyes’ have been turned around and left that way or removed from the wall and stuffed under rugs or chair cushions, things like that. Like whoever is doing these horrible things is afraid of being judged perhaps. The papers never report just what it is that his been taken but, apparently, it’s nothing more than cheap brooches, necklaces or cufflinks from days when they were still the height of fashion.”

  Nathan jots all of this down in his notepad. “So then why take them?”

  “Well, naturally all of the nurses and staff have been questioned extensively. So they were starting to say that they think those things were taken as trophies. Things to mark their victims, his victims… I doubt a girl could do things like this.”

  Nathan knows from experience that it is equally likely either way, but he’s not going to contradict her. That would only lead to her asking questions about him and that isn’t at all what he wants. “Trophies?”

  “That’s the other detail that they keep leaving out of the paper. Each of the victims has been scandalized. Do you know what that means, Mr. Pettyfer? Scandalized?”

  Poor Emma looks like she’s about to lose her appetite and dissolve into the shakes if she has to explain just what she means. It’s a very sort of sick person who could do such a thing. Nathan isn’t the best at attempting to comfort people. “Yes, I believe I do.” He flips the page in his notepad. “The police department doesn’t have any leads? Nobody of interest?”

  “No! It doesn’t even seem like they are looking into it at all! I’ve written letters and made phone calls and none of the local news trucks even want to touch it! They all seem to act like it’s just forgetful old folk and that’s nonsense. It wouldn’t still be in the papers if that was the case, no matter how bored people might get. That’s why I had to reach out to you. You’re not from here and I need help, Mr. Pettyfer. You can find out the truth of things and hopefully spare my father the same fate.”

  “Is there any sort of pattern to the victims?�
�

  “No, men and women, they are all of a certain age of course, but other than that, they seem to be all over the board.”

  “That will make things a little more difficult.”

  “I have faith in you, Mr. Pettyfer.”

  She doesn’t need to. The company Nathan works for is more than efficient. This entire conversation is a formality. He’s just ticking down the boxes that the company has asked him to do. The path he is supposed to take is already laid out in front of him.

  “I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure this doesn't happen to your dear old father." Nathan reaches across the table and pats the top of Emma's hand in a comforting gesture and finally lays down his pen as their food arrives and their business talk fades away in favor of lighter background information about the town.

  3

  “S

  ubject appears to be early eighties, late seventies. Ligature marks around the neck and the skin has started to tear around the mouth, presumably from attempting to scream or screaming. There are broken vessels around the eyes from straining and it appears that the tongue has been removed. We have not found a tongue in the residence yet, but we will be keeping a close eye out for it. Minimal blood, probably due to poor circulation. The woman appears to have attempted to fight back due to the latex particles we found under her fingers so we assume the assailant was using gloves.”

  The coroner has already removed the body from the scene but Sheriff Thomas Crane knows exactly what that body looked like. He knew every one of those details before they were told to him and not a single soul inside of this room is going to know why. They couldn’t have guessed it on their own and it’s more than a little satisfying to him that nobody has managed to find the common thread between all of these bodies.

  It makes him feel powerful, knowing things that nobody else knows. He likes having the upper hand in everything he does and this is no exception. They called him out to the scene simply because the nature of the crime was so very violent. Sheriff Crane likes hearing how sick they think the person who did this is. If only they knew. He likes knowing that if these people knew the truth about him, they would be repulsed. Sheriff Crane likes it even more that they never will. He hasn’t become sheriff because he’s sloppy. He knows exactly what to do, and he is better trained than most of the other deputies inside of his department. “What else?” he asks while pulling on latex gloves and mentally laughing about the fact that if they had a way of tracing the latex under that old bitch’s fingers they would have known that these gloves were purchased in bulk by the police department.

  “Well, it appears that she was ah…” The deputy pauses in giving his report, almost reluctant to say it. Sheriff Crane wonders for a moment if perhaps the deputy is thinking about his own grandmother. He wonders if the poor young lad is thinking about what he might do if he were to go to his granny’s house and find her in a similar state. Perhaps someday he might, perhaps in a few years she will be old enough to tempt him. Old enough to be the perfect helpless victim. They have lived long enough, and while Sherrif Crane is sure they might be missed by some if they have any surviving relatives, it’s not like they will be missed for long. He knows how the grief process works. It’s human nature to mourn, but whenever the person is older than you, a part of you always knew that someday they were going to die. It makes it easier to accept, easier to move on from, and ultimately makes it easier to forget.

  “What is it, deputy?” Sheriff Crane barks at the boy, causing him to flinch in fear.

  “She … she appears to have … well…”

  “Out with it, do I need to assign somebody else?”

  “N-no, Sherrif Crane.” The young man straightens himself and wills his facial features into stillness as he squares his shoulders. “The victim’s night dress was torn all the way up the back. There was blood on her legs; we have reason to believe that she was sexually assaulted before she was murdered, the coroner will confirm the details after his examination.”

  “Sexually assaulted? You said she was eighty,” Sheriff Crane confirms. The young man looks queasy and Sherrif Crane can’t deny how good that disgust makes him feel. Luckily for Crane, he has mastered the art of deception and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disapproval. He’s mostly disapproving of the young man’s lack of professional decorum but the room doesn’t need to know that.

  Every handful of years Sherrif Thomas Crane will change up his style. He knows that the key to not getting caught is being varied in the victims so that crime patterns cannot be created. He doesn’t pay for the extensive training that these sorry lot of foot soldiers might need if they were to even hope of getting anywhere near catching him. He knows this and it calms him. For years he had a nasty habit of killing those who crossed him. It was long before he was able to control his temper. Before he had ever gone to the police academy or anything of the sort.

  Then he had started disappearing a few criminals. Those who were in the drunk tank one too many times and then whenever they were released they just wouldn’t make it home. Some low-level dealers or prostitutes on the streets, he didn’t care much what gender they were, but after a handful of them he realized that there was no fun in it. He didn’t like it when they fought back because it took too much of his energy and then he couldn’t enjoy the parts he liked the most. He likes to watch people break, it’s what makes him such a great asset to interrogations because he loves nothing more than playing mind games with people. He likes when they struggle but not when it’s a threat to him. A girl he kidnapped once even had the audacity to scratch his face, his whole face, and he hadn’t been able to prevent it. She died too quickly. He had left her to rot out on his farm until his pigs ate her.

  Thomas Crane’s father and grandfather were both farmers and he had grown up a very poor man. He didn’t think much of material possessions and growing up he never knew that he didn’t have all of the same luxuries as the other students in his class did. It wasn’t until he hit high school that he started to see that his thrift store clothes weren’t as nice and that whenever his mother made his socks and shirts for him it wasn’t like what the other kids had and they often teased him for it. He only joined the police academy because he didn’t get good enough grades to get into college and Thomas wanted nothing more than the authority to make each and every one of those kids who had bullied him pay. He wanted to put bullets between their eyes and he had started learning how to properly fight in the academy. It was so much better for him than he ever could have imagined. Once he had his badge, he got it in his head that there was nothing that he couldn’t do with it. It was his all-access pass to anything he wanted. Suddenly, upon graduating, the whole world opened up to him.

  He had moved to a bigger city just to get his years under his belt and didn’t come back home, not once, until his father died. He learned then that at some point in his years away his grandfather had left him and when he came home for the funeral of his father, his mother blamed Thomas for his father’s death, which was strange he thought, seeing as he hadn’t even been around.

  Thomas’s mother was convinced that her husband had died of a broken heart. That while they had been so overly proud of him for making something of himself and moving away at first, they came to think that the reason why Thomas had never come home again was because he was ashamed of them. Which of course he was. Though the accusation of having done something that he hadn’t wasn’t something he could abide by. “You want me to be the reason somebody is dead, Ma?” he can remember asking her, and the look of horror on her face as he lifted her pie slicer off of the kitchen counter is a treasured memory he will keep with him always.

  She became his first murder victim that night, and he found he liked it. He liked it a whole lot. He shoved her in the old well out back in the goat barn, where he sticks the ones he really likes. A whole farm with nobody to work it but himself, nobody to ask questions. It was more than he ever could have dreamt of. While Thomas had thoug
ht that the world was open to him before it was even more so now that he had a place to be as nefarious as his heart wanted.

  For a time, that was enough.

  For a time, he did as he pleased and reveled in the knowledge that he was untouchable, he might as well have been God. Though, much like anything else, it got boring. It wasn’t enough. The high that was given to him as he watched a life fade away into nothingness started to slip away.

  Then he met Doris. Doris likes to bake cookies and look out her kitchen window. Doris also likes to stick her short, upturned nose into everybody’s business. Doris is a busybody. Doris likes to call the station and file report after report for any tiny little infraction that she finds wrong with any of her neighbors' behaviors. She likes to complain and she likes even more to talk off the ear of any poor cop who picks up the phone. She ties up his men and not in the fun way. Nobody likes Doris.

  One day, Thomas felt he’d had enough when he had to go out on a call for yet another one of her little civic complaints that she is a fan of. He can remember her standing on her porch with her curlers in her hair and her arms folded across her chest with that smug look of satisfaction on her face as he parked his car and headed up to her neighbor’s house to ask if they had been able to give thought to destroying their garden simply because the smell of flowers aggravates Doris’ allergies. He was about halfway up the drive when the neighbor came stomping out of her house to combat whatever nonsense Doris had filed.