Killer Chronicles

by Somer Canon

  “Pets are family,” I said, trying to keep up with her subject-jumping rambling.

  “Pets are lesser creatures!” Grenadine snapped, pinching the skin of my stomach painfully. “Just as you are beneath me, Christina. You are worthy of my affections, but you are still a baseless beast that does little more than crawl about this earth wallowing in your own shit and eating and destroying everything around you simply because your brain doesn’t seem to grasp consequences unless it involves personal, physical pain.”

  She pinched me harder and I was biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. Her talons were digging into my skin, and I felt when the delicate tissue finally gave way. Her gray talon sank into me. I gritted my teeth and made a pained noise, pushing my eyes closed as tightly as I could. When Grenadine released me, I opened my eyes to watch her lick the blood from her talon. Her tongue was a startlingly bright red as it darted out of her mouth quickly to get at the blood, not unlike a cat lapping up milk.

  “Your taste is sweet, Christina,” Grenadine said, smacking her lips. “Lucky for you, I prefer savory meals.”

  And she was gone again. I heard Terry continue his walk to the bathroom just behind me and I scrambled back up onto the bed and under the covers. I looked at the hole in my stomach. It was an inch-wide gash weeping blood and puss. It hurt like all holy hell.

  Terry came out of the bathroom a minute later, naked and shy, and started dressing himself. I sat in bed watching him, not really seeing him. I wanted to go home and get the hell away from that place and the fairy, even though I thankfully knew that she had no interest in eating me.

  Just any babies I might someday have.

  And Terry.

  “You still want to get a pizza? I’m fine with pizza, but we can get other stuff too. There’s a wing place just down the street from here that’s pretty good,” Terry said to me.

  He came over to me and kissed me lightly on the lips and I was horrified when I felt my loins fire up again. Maybe Grenadine was right about me being a base and lesser creature, but I knew this sexually timid man wasn’t up for anything other than food, so I agreed that wings sounded fantastic. I got out of bed, not ashamed of my nakedness and went into the bathroom to get cleaned up and make sure I smelled fresh.

  And bandage up the hole in my stomach.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next day I found myself standing in front of a building on a main street reading probably one of the most non-ironically hilarious signs I’d ever seen.

  STAN’S SUPER SCRUBBERS

  ‘When a mop and bucket ain’t gonna cut it!’

  This was the business that handled the cleaning of Matthew Hart’s truck and was also the employer of Martin Hamrick. I had spoken to the owner, a Stanley Cogar, and was told to come right in for an interview. I had high hopes for a juicy interview, as Stanley sounded like a jovial and talkative gentleman over the phone.

  An electronic bell dinged when I opened the door. The place was a bare-bones front office that reminded me of the place that I went to get my car maintenance done. The floors were bare concrete and the desk sitting directly opposite the front door was a metal relic that was in marvelously good condition. A small, boney, middle-aged woman sat behind the desk shuffling papers, but she looked up and greeted me with a kind smile.

  “Help you, hon?” the lady asked.

  “Yes, my name is Christina Cunningham and I have an appointment to speak with Mister Cogar?” I said sweetly.

  “Oh, of course,” the lady said, scrambling out of her seat and coming towards me. She shook my hand vigorously and smiled up into my face.

  “I’m Bertie Cogar, Stanley’s missus,” she said. “We’re happy to answer any questions you might have.”

  Boom. I swear I heard angels singing. It’s almost never that easy.

  “I really appreciate it, Mrs. Cogar,” I said, smiling my best and brightest.

  “STAN!” Bertie bellowed over her shoulder.

  “WHAT?” Stanley bellowed back.

  “GET YOUR BEHIND OUT HERE NOW!” Bertie demanded.

  I heard a loud groaning from the back and a heavy metal door opened off to the right and in walked a wall of a man. He was at least six and a half feet tall and the gnarled joints on his enormous, calloused hands spoke of a life of manual labor. His immaculately clean and combed white hair contrasted with the stained and grimy blue jumpsuit he had on over his clothes.

  “Stan, this is that girl who was comin’ to interview you about Marty and that truck,” Bertie said to him, wrapping an arm around Stanley’s waist.

  “Oh, yeah I remember,” Stanley said, pulling a clean red bandana from his back pocket and wiping his clean hands before shaking my hand. I liked Stanley a lot.

  “Mister Cogar,” I began. “Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. Now before we begin with the interview, I was wondering if I might take a few photographs of the outside of your establishment? I’d also like to give you and Mrs. Cogar an opportunity to consider having me photograph the two of you to go onto the site along with your interview. This is 100% optional.”

  “Sure you can take pictures (she pronounced it ‘pitchers’) of the outside of the place,” Bertie said.

  “I ain’t much comfortable with havin’ my picture taken, though,” Stanley said, looking sheepish. “I don’t mean nothin’ by that, but havin’ my face on the internet seems a bit more of me on there than I want.”

  I smiled and nodded, resisting the urge to inform Stanley that almost all of his personal information could be found on the internet. It was no use with older generations, though. To many of them, the internet was something to be feared and avoided.

  “That’s no problem at all,” I said brightly. “If you’ll just give me one minute to take pictures of the front of the building, I’ll be right back.”

  I spun and went out front and snapped a couple of pictures of the façade of the building and came back in to see Stanley sitting behind the metal desk and Bertie sitting on top of it, holding Stanley’s hand. I smiled at the sweetness of the scene and strung my camera around my neck.

  “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ to get pictures of that truck, too.” Stanley said.

  “You still have it?” I asked excitedly.

  “Yep. It’s out in the yard here,” Stanley said, rising slowly from the Bertie-sized chair and leading the way out of the door that he had entered earlier.

  Bertie and I followed behind Stanley as he slowly sauntered through what looked and smelled like an equipment room. There were huge steamers, shop vacs, buckets, and jugs of differently colored cleaning solvents stacked next to boxes of face masks and latex gloves. Bertie caught me turning my head to look at all of the stuff and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s a nasty job, but my Stan works hard at it and makes a good livin’ from it,” she said.

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said, smiling down at her.

  Stanley opened another heavy door that led to a back yard. There was an old Dodge pickup truck parked there and it looked to be in the process of a massive sanding and paint stripping. There were patches of the original true blue colored paint, but most of the truck was sporting the dull gray of the metal that made up the body of the vehicle.

  “Did the, uh, the organic matter eat away at the paint job?” I asked.

  “Naw,” Stanley said, rubbing the back of his neck pensively. “This thing sat in the hot sun for a few days with them chunks of skin just cooking on it. By the time the cops took what they wanted, and we started peeling the stuff off, we could see that there was no way we was going to be able to clean it off. It was just a baked-on mess. We’re just gonna strip all of the paint off and sell it off as is. Had to completely clear out the cab too. I tell you what, that was a hell of a smell.”

  I started snapping photos of the truck. When I went to get some snaps of the inside I saw that Stanley and his team had indeed stripped everything out. There were no seats, no upholstery, nothing. There was nothing but
bare metal everywhere. I looked over at Stanley and Bertie and smiled, putting the lens cap back on my camera. I pulled out my voice recorder and waved it at them, asking if it was okay to record the interview. When they gave their consent on the recorder, I turned it on and stuck it in my breast pocket.

  “There wasn’t much flesh in the cab though, was there? I mean, surely there’s not a lot of flesh on facial skin?” I asked.

  “A boy I once worked with one time left a half-eaten hot dog in his car for a week,” Stanley said. “That one little piece of hot dog, sitting in a hot car and rotting away, created a stink so hellish that it made your eyes water. I ‘bout smacked the spit outta that boy’s mouth. Same with this. That little bit of meat just kept getting hot and cool, hot and cool, and it smelled up that truck so bad that when the first cop on the scene opened the door, he up and puked right next to the damned door. We had to scoop that hell up before we could even start on the truck.”

  The saliva in my mouth had gotten thick and I swallowed hard, trying to get my throat clear.

  “Can you tell me about what the truck looked like on the outside? It seems that the skin was more or less ripped from the victim instead of cut.” I looked at Bertie, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry. If this is too detailed for you…”

  “No, no,” Bertie said, waving a dismissive hand. “Honey I hunt with this man of mine and I’ve seen and done my share of cleaning, gutting, skinning and killing. I work the desk here because I get all claustrophobic in those breathing masks. Unless you start talking about dog shit, you’re not going to upset me.”

  I smiled at Bertie, feeling a sense of admiration for those two humble, no-nonsense, awesome people.

  “Well I apologize for the assumption,” I said. I turned my eyes to Stanley and raised my eyebrows, indicating that I was ready for his answer.

  “If they say the skin was ripped off, I believe it,” he began. “I mean, skinning isn’t really a very messy thing. With a deer, you’ve already gutted the thing before you start in on skinning and you just start by cutting a starting spot at the neck and you rip and cut down. But with this poor fella, it was just a bunch of, well I’m not sure. They were little pieces about the size of a sandwich, just smooshed all over that truck. And yeah, they were ragged and there were a few really thin strips in some spots. I don’t even know how you’d rip skin up like that. Even without a good knife, once you had a good opening in the skin, it wouldn’t take more than time and some strong arms to take the skin off like a T-shirt. Maybe it was ripped up after it was removed.” Stanley shook his head and patted Bertie on her cheek, smiling down at her.

  “The face was probably the part that upset us all the most,” Stanley continued. “See, I’m one of only two cleaning specialists with a permit to clean places contaminated with biohazardous waste in this area. And I’ve seen some stuff. But the way that man’s face was ripped off of his head, God, his eyelids were still intact. His beard scruff, his eyebrows and eyelashes, even his ears, they were all perfectly intact and just spread out pretty as can be on the dashboard of that there truck. Even the part of the skin that had the tattoo. You could fool yourself into seeing those pieces as something other than what they were, but that face sitting there all half rotted and slimy staring up at me…I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

  I looked over into the truck again and saw that the plastic or fiberglass dash cover had been ripped out. I was never going to hear the phrase “baked on” on those stupid dishwashing commercials and not think of this truck ever again.

  “Would you like to speculate on what happened to the rest of Mr. Hart’s remains?” I asked.

  I don’t know why I asked. I knew where he’d ended up. I’d heard Grenadine’s sultry phantom voice say the words “stew pot” at least a million times in the past two days in the nightmare producing part of my subconscious. I kept picturing a huge, black, cast iron cauldron sitting over a fire with gory bits of meat and organs floating in an orange broth.

  “Not really,” Stanley answered.

  I could tell by the way his mouth was scrunching up, that he was going to speculate anyway. Unsavory material or not, this man had opinions to share.

  “The way I see it, that fella was killed somewhere far from where that truck was found. There would have been one hell of a mess wherever he was killed. Now I been thinking about it and I figure whoever did it has a place all their own out somewhere quiet where they did this. I mean, with a deer, it takes time to gut and skin. If you can get it hung up on a tree, the gutting can go a little quicker, maybe 15 minutes, but it still takes an hour or two to skin the thing and we usually don’t rip up the skin to smear all over a perfectly good truck. It’s a messy job. I got no idea about what this maniac did to the rest of the fella. Maybe they buried it. Maybe they put him in a big freezer and saved him for later. Sick people don’t seem to know no limits.”

  “Okay,” I said quietly. “Thank you. Now can you tell me a little bit about Martin Hamrick?”

  Bertie groaned. Stanley rolled his eyes and looked down, not meeting my eyes. I frowned in a “let me in on the secret” way.

  “We don’t mean to disrespect the dead,” Stanley said.

  “The man was strange,” Bertie finished.

  “Strange?” I prompted.

  “He had a drinking problem,” Stanley said. “He came in to work once or twice still pickled and I had to threaten to fire him if he did it again. I try not to be too hard on alcoholics. I’ve known more than my fair share. Besides, in these parts, if alcoholism is the only disease you got, you’re lucky.” Stanley rubbed the back of his neck again and looked down at Bertie. There seemed to be a conversation going on with the significant looks they kept shooting each other.

  “He was a little awkward, I guess. He had himself a girlfriend. Nice girl. Never understood why she was with Marty,” Stanley said.

  “He was a filthy person,” Bertie said in an outburst. “He had the means to be a clean person, but he always smelled just awful and he was mean as a snake to boot. I didn’t wish the man dead, please believe that, but I’m glad I don’t have to ever be in his presence again.”

  Stanley exhaled loudly and glared down at Bertie who returned his glare for everything she was worth. Apparently, there was a difference of opinion on what “respect for the dead” meant and Bertie didn’t hold to it as strongly as her husband.

  “Was he a good worker?” I asked, moving things along.

  “He showed up when he was called, that’s about all I can say about that,” Stanley answered.

  “Was he with you to get Matthew Hart’s truck cleaned up?” I asked.

  “Yep,” Stanley answered. “He was pretty upset over that and had to go sit down by that pretty little pond there by where the thing was found. He eventually came back, smiling like a jack-o’-lantern. Said that that pond made him feel real happy and he got to cleaning like he never cleaned before. I was impressed.”

  An icy sensation started creeping up my spine.

  “Was it the next day that he missed work?” I asked.

  “Yep,” Stanley answered. “Never saw him again after that. I got the truck towed over here, nobody could stand sitting in it with that smell, and he helped me lock the place up and that was the last I saw of him.”

  “I do hope that this hasn’t had a negative effect on your company,” I said, meaning it.

  “Naw, we’ll be alright. Lots of people need a job and this isn’t one that requires a college degree,” Stanley said, smiling at me.

  I reached into my pocket and turned off the voice recorder. I walked to the Cogar’s and shook both of their hands, thanking them sincerely for their time and information.

  “It’s no problem, honey,” Bertie said. “You’re nicer than that girl from the paper. She was smarmy and borderline rude when she interviewed my Stan.” Bertie wrapped a protective arm around her enormous husband’s waist and smiled up at him fondly.

  I frowned lightly. Yes, Stephanie D’Agos
tino had a bit of an attitude, but she and I were not in competition with each other either. She was doing her job as the local reporter, and frankly, even though this case is awful, it’s a sweetheart assignment for a reporter. I said as much to Bertie in the politest way I could manage. Bertie smiled at me and reached out and squeezed my forearm.

  “You’re a good girl,” she said sincerely. “You keep being that.”

  “Oh Bertie,” I thought. “If only you knew.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Anais was sitting on my bed watching television when I returned to the hotel after leaving the Cogar’s to their cleaning.

  “Ana!” I said, surprised to see her stretched out and relaxing. It wasn’t something I saw much of with Anais. Her showing up without planning it ahead of time was almost unheard of for my hyper-organized friend.

  I dropped my bag and walked towards her to hug her but stopped short when she didn’t acknowledge me or get up from the bed.

  “I’m glad that you responded to this form better,” she said in a sultry voice that was alien coming out of her mouth.

  “You?” I whispered.

  “The cake girl was not my favorite form,” she said, tossing the TV remote to the side and looking up at me finally.

  I took a step back and put a hand to the gash on my stomach defensively.

  “I thought I’d just drop in for a little visit,” Grenadine said, swinging Ana’s short, shapely legs off of my bed. “Where is that mutt of yours?” she asked.

  I stared at her, confused. I didn’t have a dog.

  “That mongrel you were screwing,” she said to me, rolling her eyes in annoyance at my stupidity.