The Second Coming

by J. Fritschi

  She was a beautiful, vibrant woman in her mid thirties with flowing blonde hair when she died due to complications while giving birth to him. His father always assured him that she didn’t actually die giving birth to him, but after he was born due to complications, but it did not matter what his father told him. Father John still blamed himself for her death. After all, he reasoned, she would not have died if she didn’t give birth to him. His father explained to him and he later came to accept, that only God has the power to grant life and to take it away. His mother would have eventually died, just like any other person on God’s green earth, but for some reason known only to God, she was taken after giving life to Father John. His father explained that God works in mysterious ways which they could not understand and that they must have faith that it was all part of God’s grand plan.

  As Father John grew older, he wanted to know why God took his mother from him. What was God’s plan? That was the answer that Father John would spend his life searching for. He wanted to know why the world was the way it was and why God did the things he did. He wanted to know what it was like to be God. But the more he learned, the more questions he had.

  Why now was he having these evil dreams of women being murdered and why was he unable to save them like in his other dreams of divine intervention? What did they mean? Was God testing his faith? Or was it Satan testing his resolve?

  Once again, he had more questions than he did answers. His journey for enlightenment needed to continue and he knew that he must leave the abbey to discover the true meaning of his dreams. Regardless of what the dreams meant and why he was having them, there was one thing that he was certain of; he felt impure and not worthy of remaining there. It was time for him to go home and see his father in the hope he could help explain his dreams and figure out a way to stop the senseless murders.

  chapter 26

  BY THE TIME Mike left The Precinct he was good and fired up on Gin and didn’t have any interest in going home to be alone with his thoughts and fears. He made his regular rounds to the bars that were his home away from home and partied with his degenerate brothers and sisters until he couldn’t think about the things that tormented him when he lay his sober head on the pillow.

  When he woke up, he couldn’t remember how he got home although he vaguely remembered sitting on the couch with his dad’s gun in his hand. Or was that a memory from another night? He sat up on the edge of his bed in his boxers and wearily rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His mouth taste like wood chips and his head felt like it was full of sand. He stood unsteadily and slowly stumbled to the bathroom using the walls to keep his balance. Standing in front of the toilet, he blinked his eyes trying to gain focus as he started to take a thundering piss. There was a tremendous release of pressure as he let out a groan and smiled.

  He shuffled to the walk-in closet and pulled a pair of sweat pants on, almost losing his balance as he pulled his second leg through. His eyes were half mast as he pulled a t-shirt over his head and made his way in the dawn’s morning light to the kitchen where he poured himself a large plastic cup of water and began to chug it down. The water overflowed and streamed down the sides of his chin, onto the front of his shirt. He let out a deep sigh as he wiped his swollen face with his arm and then set the cup down on the counter. He was getting too old for this shit.

  Every morning he woke up feeling mentally and physically exhausted and would tell himself that tonight he was going to take a night off to let his body rest and his mind rejuvenate, but by the end of the day, after showering, eating and rehydrating, he would feel like himself again; like he wanted to drink at least a couple of cocktails to cut the edge.

  It wasn’t like when he was young, in his prime physical condition playing football, when he could go out and party night after night and rebound with no problem the next morning. Back in the day, he felt as good the next morning or better than he did if he didn’t go out and that was part of the problem. He never used to get hangovers. He never got headaches or threw up. Mike just kept on partying and the more he drank the more tolerance he gained and the longer he could party, which was how he earned the nick name “The Terminator”. He just couldn’t be stopped.

  But now it was different. All of the years of excessive drinking and staying out late were taking their toll on him. The problem was there was nobody to stop him; nothing to go home to except an empty house and bad memories. All he needed was a reason to stop; something or someone to inspire him. In the back of his mind he knew he couldn’t keep going like this and that eventually it would catch up with him, but he just kept putting it off, telling himself that he would stop eventually and allow his body to recover.

  Besides, he knew people that drank as much, if not more than he did and they lived into their 80’s. He didn’t want to live to be much older than that anyway. If God came down from the heavens today and told Mike that he could live 80 healthy years living his current lifestyle or he could live 90 healthy years if he gave up drinking and lived a normal, mundane life style, Mike would take the 80 year deal without a second thought. At least that is what he told himself. Besides, he had a healthy family history. All of his relatives lived long, healthy lives…all except his dad, but he didn’t die due to health reasons; unless you count suicide as a mental health issue.

  Mike shook his head with disbelief. What the hell was he thinking? He opened the front door and saw the newspaper lying in the driveway behind his Mustang. He hurried out into the brisk morning air, his feet feeling the chill of the cement driveway and retrieved the wrapped newspaper and then darted back through the front door. His eyes were still blurry and his head groggy as he unfolded the paper and opened it up to the front page. He stared at one of the headlines in disbelief.

  STERLING KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.

  Mike’s heart sank and he felt as though someone kicked him in the stomach. The killer now had a name. He thought he was going to be sick. Mike began to read the article in earnest and was relieved to discover that the journalist didn’t know about the symbol smeared in the victim’s blood. The Police Department withheld that information to eliminate false confessions and because they knew it was an integral part of the killer’s plan. They were hoping he would be angry and contact the newspaper or the police and demand that they print the symbol. Maybe then he would make a mistake.

  Mike threw the paper on the counter and finished making his cup of coffee. It wasn’t often that he drank coffee because it made him feel like he had been doing cocaine, but he was going to need help getting going today. With feelings of guilt and remorse welling in his belly, Mike begrudgingly shuffled down the hall past the framed pictures of smiling, laughing faces and beautiful places that comprised his life and walked into his bedroom to take a shower and get ready for a dreaded day of work.

  After he showered, Mike was getting dressed in his closet and his lean body was gripped with anxiety brought on by alcohol and posttraumatic stress disorder. The two of them together were a paralyzing combination. He lost his balance as he pulled on a pair of faded designer jeans and his hands trembled as he struggled to slip the buttons of his pressed shirt into their slots. He let out a deep breath and tried again as if he was relearning how to perform motor skills that should have been simple, but were frustratingly tedious. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip and brow of his moist face as his heart pounded irregularly and the fish of malcontent swam in his stomach.

  Wiping the sweat from his pasty face and sunken eyes, he held his vibrating hand out horrified how unsteady it was. If it was someone else’s hand, he would not have believed it was possible to be that shaky. He opened the top drawer of his vanity and searched frantically for his bottle of Xanax. He fumbled with the child proof lid until he uncontrollably flipped it into the sink, sending the bottle and pills scouring. “Holy shit!” he said under his breath as he panicked to pick the pills out of the sink before they dissolved. Finally he got them back into the bottle and much to his relief, one into his mouth. It was onl
y a matter of time before the surge of tranquility eased his angst.

  Mike knew he had a problem and there were many mornings that he thought about checking himself into rehab, but that would mean admitting his problem to everyone in his small world and he didn’t want anyone to know how bad his problem was. It was his problem and it wasn’t anyone else’s business. He could only imagine the hypocritical rumor mongers casting judgment at him. Fuck them. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  He thought about taking a couple of weeks off for vacation and not telling anyone where he was going so he could anonymously check himself into a rehab center in Napa. No one would be the wiser, but he thought that would be a sign of weakness and he despised weak men. He would work through this on his own when the time came. At least that is what he told himself. Tonight he would not drink. It was a pact he made and broke with himself too many times to count.

  As he gathered his things and prepared to head out the door for work, he felt as though everything in his world was crashing down upon him, but things were about to get worse.

  chapter 27

  BY THE TIME Mike got to work, the Xanax was kicking in and he was feeling comfortable in his skin again. Thank God for small favors. After he and Big Pete spent the better part of the morning getting ripped by Captain Volger, they decide it would be best to split up and canvas as many bars and churches as they could.

  Captain Volger confirmed that the second victim was indeed a bartender at a hole-in-the-wall bar down the street from the church where her body was discovered. The killer was limiting his potential for being caught, but why was he taking the risk of moving his victims? And why bartenders and why churches? There had to be a connection.

  Big Pete and Mike agreed to pay particular attention and make note of any bar and church that were in close proximity to each other. They soon realized there were churches and bars in throwing distance from each other all over Oakland. It made sense; one would go to the bar to spend what little money they had to get fucked up and forget about how shitty their life was. They would wake up the next day feeling guilty and would go to church to ask for forgiveness and clear their conscious. It was as if the churches and bars were in business together.

  Big Pete wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he thought maybe something would trigger a hunch. At this point in the investigation, a hunch might be the only thing left to go on.

  Mike was going to spend the day driving to hole-in-the-wall bars and talking with whoever was on staff. Hopefully someone had seen or heard something that could be of use or at least Mike could warn everyone, especially female blonde bartenders, to be cautious and aware of their surroundings.

  Both avenues were long shots, but after the Captain jumped down their throats and strongly suggested that they get off of their asses and make something happen, they felt they needed to do something and this was the best thing they could come up with. Now that the murders were headline news and all over the radio talk show circuit, they knew the heat would be turned up. The Sterling Killer was the biggest thing since the Zodiac Killer and it was about to get worse.

  In a roughly nine hour period, Mike visited 20 different bars. At each of the bars he spoke with the bartender, the manager or the owner, depending on who was on duty, and in a few cases he spoke with all three of them. No one reported seeing anything that could be considered a solid lead, but some of the people read the articles in the morning papers and had their own theories about the killer, none of which were plausible. Mike thanked everyone for their time and left his card, asking them to call him if they saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.

  Much to Mike’s relief, there were no female blonde bartenders, but he asked everyone if they knew of any in the area. Two male bartenders and one female bartender mentioned one that worked at Buschini’s Ristorante, an upscale restaurant. The looks of splendor and the reverent tone that each bartender used when they spoke of her made Mike more than just a little intrigued to meet her. He decided that Buschini’s would be the last stop of his day and the first drink of his night.

  It was a little past seven thirty when he walked in through the glass doors, past the vacated hostess podium and into the bustling bar and lounge area. Mike scanned the crowd and assessed the situation. It was a middle-aged, high-end crowd dressed in suits or designer clothing. This was definitely not the Sterling Killer’s target location. It was too nice and too busy. It was warm and the sweet smell of garlic and spices invited him toward the shelves of bottles that lined the wall. Over by the far corner of the bar he spotted a sliver of space that would allow him to scrutinize everyone that came through the front door. It was the perfect lookout position. He slowly made his way through the crowd and slipped into the crevice, leaning sideways on the bar. He examined the faces for anyone suspicious. He didn’t notice anyone that appeared to be a threat; just a bunch of self-consumed assholes. A well groomed man with dark hair and glasses bumped into Mike and when Mike glanced at him with a scowl on his face, the man apologized with a look of concern and moved away before Mike could tell him “no problem”. When Mike turned around the blonde bartender was standing there ready to take his order. They were right; she was drop dead gorgeous. Mike noticed her eyes light up when she saw his rugged face.

  “Would you like something to drink?” She asked with a sweet tone that gave Mike the shivers as she set a cocktail napkin in front of him.

  “Yes please,” Mike responded. “Can I have a Kettle One on the rocks with a couple of onions please?”

  “Sure,” the bartender responded. “Would you like to see a menu?”

  I’d like to see you naked. “No thank you.”

  Mike watched her tight ass in her black pants as she walked over and began making his drink. She was a wholesome little nugget with bright blue eyes and a little ski jump nose. She reminded him of a country girl he remembered seeing in a Playboy magazine when he was a teenager. What he wouldn’t give to have a roll in the hay with her.

  He examined her with discerning eyes as she brought his cocktail over and set it in front of him. She noticed and blushed.

  “Can I get you anything else?” She asked with a seductive smile of flawless teeth.

  You can get me anything you want. “What’s your name?” Mike asked in a not so creepy way.

  She peered at Mike questioningly.

  “I’m sorry,” Mike said as he offered her his hand. “My name is Mike McCormick.”

  She wiped her manicured hand on her apron and then shook his hand. “Nice to meet you Mike. My name is Denise.”

  “Nice to meet you as well,” Mike said as he raised his glass. “My doctor says I should have one of these every half hour so I would appreciate it if you would administer them to me accordingly.”

  “You want me to be your nurse?” She asked with a playful twinkle in her eyes.

  Mike choked on his drink and as she sauntered away she glanced over her shoulder at him with a devilish grin. He was infatuated with her.

  Mike sat at the bar for the next couple of hours drinking vodka’s and making flirtatious advances. The more he drank, the more courageous his comments became until they bordered on inappropriate. At one point Denise teasingly threw an olive at him, but she didn’t seem to mind. She would simply rebuttal with her own clever innuendos and seductive grin. She could give as good as she could get.

  Around nine thirty, when the crowd was thinning out, Denise placed a cosmopolitan on the bar next’s to Mike’s drink and he watched with longing eyes as she walked around the bar and sat next to him. They sat at the bar making friendly small talk and getting acquainted for about an hour. Mike noticed that she wasn’t wearing a ring and that there was no tan line on her wedding finger. How was it possible that someone as beautiful and as smart as her was not married? She had to be almost thirty years old. Why hadn’t someone snatched her up? There had to be something wrong with her that she was hiding. Maybe she was divorced or maybe she was a lesbian? Mike could only imagine
how hot her girlfriend would be. Maybe she was one of those fatal attraction stalkers? Denise noticed the look of concern on Mike’s face.

  “There is something you should know about me,” she said timidly.

  Mike sat up in his chair and tried to play it cool. “As long as you’re not married I don’t think there is anything you can tell me that will change my mind about you.”

  Denise smiled nervously. “That’s sweet,” she replied and then took a deep breath and gazed into Mike’s eyes. “I used to be married.”

  Mike knew there had to be a secret. “Are you divorced?”

  Denise shook her head with tears in her eyes. “I’m a widow,” she replied with a crack in her flowery voice. Mike wanted to kick himself.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said as he handed her a napkin to wipe her tears. Denise dabbed the mascara under her eyes. Maybe she was a black widow? He wasn’t sure that he could say ‘no’ to her even if she was. She might be worth dying for and even though he knew it was insensitive, he had to pry. “How did he die?”

  “He was a soldier fighting in Afghanistan when his vehicle hit an IED.”

  Mike slumped over the bar as he nodded his head. He had seen it too many times. “I served in Afghanistan,” he said with a defeated tone. “He probably didn’t know what hit him.”

  Denise shook her head. “That’s the worst part. He died in his best friends arms and his last thoughts were of me and our daughter.”

  And then it came back to Mike in a flash; Axe’s friend. “Was your husband Tom Keane by chance?” He asked as he stared at his drink reflectively, hoping that he was wrong, not that it would have made any difference.

  Denise turned towards Mike with wide eyes and her mouth open. “Did you know Tom?” She asked excitedly.