The Brick People

by Alejandro Morales

  Parker still held the telegram when his wife Jasper burst into the office. The telegram informed the Parkers that their daughter was unharmed and that they should do nothing until they received a special delivery letter. Jasper let the telegram fall to the floor. She sat and cried openly for a few moments and then resolved to get her daughter back. She stood up and took her stunned husband by the hand.

  “Perry, we must go home,” she declared positively, for up until that minute everyone in the room had been gloomy and negative. Jasper told the investigating officer that they would wait for the letter and the return of their child at their home where Marion would want to be returned.

  At ten o’clock that night, as police began to question neighbors and family acquaintances, the Parkers stood just outside their front door. They felt that their house had been raped and that the heart of their family had been ripped out by some unknown power that probably observed their agony.

  On the morning of the following day, the Parkers heard a knock at the open door. There stood a postman who wanted to dispense with the formalities of having one of the Parkers sign for the letter, but who was instructed to proceed with business as usual. Mr. Parker scribbled his initials while Jasper took the larger than usual envelope and went to the living room where the police investigators waited. She gave the envelope to her husband. He opened it and extracted three different-sized papers. The largest of the three was a set of instructions from the kidnapper.

  Use good judgment, don’t panic and keep this a private matter. Get $1,500 in twenty-dollar bills. Instructions for the exchange of your daughter for the money will follow. If you want aid against me ask God, not man.

  Jasper took the other papers. One was a note from Marion.

  Daddy, Mommy, I’m okay, please help me. Marion.

  The third paper contained another statement from William Edward Hickman, the kidnapper.

  Remember, don’t get excited, but do get the money. I’m watching you. The Fox is very sly, you know.

  Immediately, Parker left alone for the bank. He discussed the situation with the bank owner who was briefed of the kidnapping by police and was requested to cooperate. The bank owner did not hesitate to give Parker one thousand five hundred dollars. The banker and a police detective who had been with him all morning put the money in a leather bag and sadly watched Parker walk out to the street and drive off through the modern streets of Los Angeles. At seven forty-five that evening, Hickman called Parker and in contorted monstrous tones told him to wait closely by the telephone for more information. He repeated that the rich man should try no tricks. Mr. Parker put the phone down and waited.

  Outside, within a one-mile radius from the Parker home, the police were watching all the telephone booths. The police traced the call to find that Hickman had placed the call from a booth outside the area. At eight forty-five the chimes on the grandfather clock marked the third quarter hour and blended with the ring of the telephone. Again, in terrible sounds, the kidnapper told Parker to drive to the corner of Tenth Street and Gramercy Place, park and wait. He did not mention the money but Parker took it with him.

  Hickman wanted to make sure that his demand for secrecy was being kept by his victims. He realized that the police had been notified but he wanted to deal with Parker alone and not be disturbed by meddling police officers. Hickman had made his last call from outside the Wilshire Police Station, and after he hung up the phone he observed the police run to their automobiles to get to the appointed rendezvous. He laughed aloud and restrained himself as he started his car. With a smile like a porcelain doll, he steered his car into the long line of police cars. He giggled and patted Marion on her left knee.

  As he drove to his apartment on Bellevue Avenue, Hickman became increasingly angry at Parker for not keeping the abduction of Marion a private family affair. He sat and contemplated what to do about Parker’s unfaithfulness. Finally, he feverishly composed a furious note which had to arrive in the morning, he thought, as he sealed the envelope. For Parker to receive the note by the next day it had to be mailed by two o’clock in the morning.

  Marion was now beginning to get tired of the game. At first she had considered her kidnapping a funny trick but now she wanted to go home to her mother and father. She had even told Hickman that she had dreamed she had been separated from her parents by a strange power. Marion’s dream buttressed Hickman’s belief that he had been chosen to be a Judas, that all the sins of the world would fall on him. He was convinced that he must not give Marion up, that she must accompany him until Parker turned over the one-thousand-five-hundred-piece golden fleece.

  Hickman saw Marion becoming more restless and uncontrollable. He could no longer risk traveling through the streets of Los Angeles with her in the car. He decided that he would decorate her and leave her in the apartment. He cut up a white sheet into strips which he used as ribbon to bind the terrified girl. He told her not to yell because if she did the ribbons would get tighter. He then dragged the child under the bed and tied her bound legs, feet, arms and hands to the four legs of the bed. He warned her not to cry out for it would disturb the neighbors and above all would cause the ribbons to shrink. Marion could only nod yes. She could not speak from the pain and fear of what might happen next. Hickman smiled, looked down and imagined what was under his bed, giggled strangely, quietly shut the door behind him and ran out to mail the letter.

  Muffled cries and thuds crawled and climbed through the area bordering Hickman’s door. He listened and was angered at her lack of understanding and cooperation. He opened the door slowly, hearing the sounds from Marion’s efforts to kick the floor in a desperate attempt to attract someone’s attention. He lowered himself to the floor and said hello.

  Marion, panic-stricken, now struggled violently to free herself. Hex body, energized by fear, contorted itself in impossible positions. She banged her feet, her buttocks, and back against the floor. Near exhaustion, but never giving up, she began to slam her forehead against the iron crossbars of the bed frame. She stared, eyes ablaze with fear at him, the unimaginable beast that tortured her and those she loved. Now Marion’s thoughts were riveted on her mother and father. Why didn’t they come to help her?

  Hickman shook a behave yourself finger at Marion. He sat up and studied the room. A strange smell began to invade it. His nose sniffed and explored the air. From the doors, windows, and cracks in the walls seeped a blue fog which seemed to fill the air. Out of this vapor appeared a personage of biblical bearing, a person with eyes that compelled obedience. A being who was dressed in a white suit, shirt and shoes, immaculately clean, stood before Hickman and spoke for his ears only.

  “Strangle her,” the figure said calmly and smiled.

  Hickman felt blessed, chosen and privileged to be commanded by this beautiful power that he thought existed for him alone. A blue fog had filtered into where his brain once was nourished by blood. Now a blue fluid circulated rapidly through the arteries, veins and capillaries. A chemical unknown to his physical makeup thickened in the body of the sweet-faced American boy who once wore a gold collar with a silver chain held by his mother. He held a long red towel, threw it over his neck and went down to untie the horrified Marion. Her body was limp from struggling, her forehead battered blue and bloody. He dragged her out from under the bed. As the blue fog swirled around them both, a white human shadow still glided in Hickman’s pupils, urging him to fulfill the Judas deed that he knew for a fact would take him to paradise.

  The child rested for a while, preparing herself to fight again for her freedom and by now aware that the battle would be for her life. She felt her tormentor’s hand glide over her forehead, wiping blood onto her hair. She saw him reach for the red towel hung around his neck. He lifted her head onto his knee and slipped the towel around her fragile neck. She felt the damp cloth being crossed over her throat. She screamed through the gag and fought with all the energy and force that she could possibly surge through her twisting body. The towel pulled taut as th
e all-American boy separated his hands slowly. He sat on his calves with Marion’s head slightly lodged against his knees. As he looked down at her mask of ebbing life, he saw her eyes search his and he deviated his face. His hands kept pulling apart the ends of the towel until the convolutions and throbs ceased in Marion’s body. His arms and hands fell to his side like massive weights. He fixed his vision on the white presence that seemed to be moving away. As it faded, Hickman closed his eyes and slumped over Marion’s corpse and slept peacefully.

  Hours later, he stretched with the feeling of life rested by deep sleep. He cleared his head, rubbed his eyes and saw Marion dead by his side. The extreme pallor of her murder wailed hatred at him. Outside, the modern world began to wake up. Hickman pushed back her beautiful dark curly hair. She died and now I’ll never collect the money, he thought as he rushed about reasoning an alternative plot. Finally he pulled himself together and settled on a resolution to his dilemma. He placed Marion’s body on the bed and contemplated her nacre beauty, then rushed out to a drugstore and purchased cosmetics.

  Returning to his apartment, he waved to his neighbors and went happily to his room. When he entered, his hands went for the body of Marion Parker. He stripped her and carried her to the bathroom, laid her down on the floor, and began to dissect the corpse. In her quietness and stillness Marion was beautiful, angel-like, he thought. He tenderly lowered her remains into the bathtub. His hands caressed and lovingly slit her throat and let the blood drain. The experience of working in a chicken slaughterhouse gave what he considered to be adequate knowledge of anatomy to dismember a human. Marion’s rigid arms resisted being cut at the elbows to remove the forearms. She twisted and turned when he meticulously severed the torso at the waist and carefully disembowelled it. He let the water run and cleaned the parts, torso and face of the silent, obedient Marion.

  Hickman neared the makeup that he had bought and held the head with his right hand while he painted over the mask of death a ghoulish approximation of a happy Marion. Suddenly he was stunned by the realization that his created beauty was asleep. Her closed eyes must open again to gaze on the living. He searched the rooms of his apartment until finally the answer came from a picture frame on the wall. He took the thin, shiny wire and used it as a silver thread to sew open the painted eyes.

  He then spread thick layers of newspaper beside the bathtub. With his bare hands he placed the entrails of the butchered Marion in the middle of the newspaper and wrapped the first bundle. The offal was enough to create three thick, carefully formed newspaper parcels. He drove to Elysian Park and threw the packages into an arroyo. He drove around Los Angeles with Marion’s remains at his side. He had dressed her torso and placed it in the front seat, propped on economics books. Her legs, forearms, and hands lay at his right.

  At about seven-thirty on Saturday, December 17, when night already had overtaken the day in Los Angeles, Hickman went to a telephone booth and called the terrified Mr. Parker.

  “I am the Fox. Come immediately to 493 South Manhattan Place. Make sure you come alone with the money,” he demanded.

  Parker, against the advice of the police, insisted on going alone to meet with the beast who possessed his daughter. He slowly searched for the correct numbers and upon reading them over the house entrance felt a cutting of hope go through his heart. He parked the car, turned off the headlights and strained to explore the space in which he waited with heart pounding and mind agonizing, wishing, pleading and promising to give up everything he had accumulated for the return of his daughter. All the while, Hickman, with the painted, smiling Marion at his right, watched the desperate father.

  As soon as Hickman was satisfied that Parker had come alone, he drove up alongside Parker’s car and surprised him. Parker had been thinking of the wonderful trips he and Jasper would take with Marion when he realized what was happening. In the diminished illumination thrown down by the street lamps, Parker squinted at the figure that sat in the front seat of the devil’s car. Marion was there; that was her dress, but her face was shadowed by an invisible atmosphere, a nimbus of blue vapor.

  Hickman accelerated the motor. Parker held up his hands imploringly. He threw the package of one-thousand-five-hundred dollar bills through the lowered window of the beast’s car. Abruptly, Hickman sped off heading into the darkness. At that instant a clown’s grotesque mask appeared on Marion’s face. Parker got out of his car and ran after the hateful kidnapper. Ten strides and he stopped. He understood that he must return to his car and save Marion. He fumbled hurriedly to start the engine when he saw that down the street Hickman stopped and opened the door and repulsed out into the world Marion’s members, torso and decorated face. Marion was scattered horribly on the grass between the street and the sidewalk. Over the curb her grinning head hung from her torso. Parker ran hysterically forward and found his daughter. He began to cry, and in Los Angeles an eternal and terrible fear began.

  Don Vicente Limon read the newspaper as he moved ever so slowly away from Mount Carmel Catholic Church where he had attended the eight o’clock morning Mass. Father Rafael de Fives had prayed for the soul of a child who had suffered a terrible fate unimaginable, until this morning, to the people of Southern California. In Simons, the priest’s words of fire and damnation for the murderer of Marion Parker were repeated by the workers as they greeted Father de Fives after Mass. Parents held their small children and told the others not to wander off. Their daughters were held by the hand and were not allowed to leave their sight.

  “That monster deserves to be hanged immediately,” a mother said to her husband.

  Anger and fear were communicated in looks, gestures and words. At the general store, a crowd gathered around Don Vicente. Many bought La Opinión and several had asked Don Vicente to read aloud the story of William Edward Hickman and Marion Parker. As he read the details of the kidnapping and the condition of the child’s body, prayers were said and groans of disgust and soft cries of horror and fear emerged from the crowd.

  “What should we do?” a woman cried out.

  “We will have to take our children out of school,” a mother rejoined.

  “Well, I’m going to Los Angeles to get that animal. How many are going with me?” a young man shouted and was answered by several others.

  “We must watch our children always and close the doors and windows day and night,” an old man suggested and all agreed.

  Don Vicente folded the newspaper and listened.

  “Is there anything else, Don Vicente?” a man shouted from the back of the crowd.

  “Nothing,” Don Vicente said softly.

  Silence fell on the people gathered there. Perhaps for an instant their minds brought Marion back to life. There she stood with their young daughters. The people of Simons, concerned with the possibility that such a friend like William Edward Hickman could enter their town, called to Jacobo Ramos who was tending the general store and requested to speak with Gonzalo Pedroza.

  “Calm down. Don Gonzalo is aware of what has happened. I assure you that there is no lack of security here. Only out there in that world.” Jacobo turned and entered his commercial domain.

  Not convinced, the workers went home watching their children. Most of the Simons Mexicans felt directly tainted, affected, touched by the patron’s world. Hickman came from the mass society outside of Simons, a society which rejected them, and now a beast created among the gringos was infiltrating and interacting psychologically with them. In the back of their minds lurked the possibility that the gringo beast could enter their world, or that Walter Simons would allow the police to go into Simons Town and invade their homes in search of the beast. The rumors multiplied.

  Now, in front of Octavio Revueltas’s home, Don Vicente stopped to say hello to Octavio and Federico who chatted with Ignacio. Federico read from the Los Angeles Times whose headline roared “This Fiend Must Not Escape!” The entire force of two thousand Los Angeles police were mobilized to search for Hickman. The department requested the
cooperation of Los Angeles’ leading citizens and the surrounding police agencies. An unpredictable, volatile hysteria settled over the city. People gathered and circulated aimlessly through the streets, waiting for more news about the progress of the search. Fearful citizens donated funds for a reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer. By Sunday morning authorities had amassed twenty-five thousand dollars to capture the Devil.

  “Like I’ve said, Don Vicente, it will become dangerous for Mexicans. The newspapers are saying that the Fox has black curly hair. They will stop all of us who have hair like that. You’ll see how the police will harass the Mexicans,” Federico said assuredly.

  “And now that they have a reward they will stop us even more,” Ignacio added.

  “But do you think they will come into Simons? The gringos don’t enter here, nor will criminals like the Fox,” Octavio said and put his arm on his brother Federico. “You will have to be more careful because you are moving closer to them.”

  “When do you move, Federico?” Don Vicente Limon inquired.

  “After the New Year,” Federico answered and opened the gate for his mother Milagros who had returned from Mass with Nana and the baby Micaela.

  Morning greetings were exchanged. The two women moved toward the house. Nana turned to Federico.

  “Celia told me that you will leave the house after the New Year. Has anyone asked for it?” Nana asked, adjusted Micaela’s blanket and looked to Octavio while Federico responded.

  “No one that I know about, Nana.” Federico waved and left for home.

  Ignacio and Don Vicente went off toward the bachelors’ quarters where they would drop in to see how the card games were progressing. Octavio had only an hour ago returned from there. He reached into his right pocket and felt the thick roll of twenty, fifty and hundred dollar bills.

  “Octavio, come and have breakfast,” Nana called.

  Octavio reached to adjust his cap and went to open the door for his wife. While he ate breakfast, comfortable and safe within the walls of his father and mother’s home, there roamed beyond the parameters of Simons a murderer, William Edward Hickman, who, with his obscene acts, had wrenched the lid off Pandora’s box and released a modern image of fear that hungered, fed and grew.