by Casey Doran
“Right you are. Booker was arrested four times. But he was always released, even when found with what could be considered a substantial amount of contraband on him.”
“He had somebody looking out for him.”
“Exactly.”
I glanced back at the podium. Who had that kind of power? Who had that kind of motivation?
“By the way, Preston just purchased a brand-new Mercedes from a dealership in Oak Park. List price is over one hundred thousand dollars.”
I whistled.
“Using kickback money to buy a new ride? Hard to believe Preston would be that dumb.”
“Dumb? No. Arrogant? Yes. Besides, the family isn’t exactly broke. It wouldn’t seem too unusual, unless you looked at the whole picture.”
I thought about what she was telling me. “So Preston works with Booker to increase the flow of drugs through the area. The cops arrest him, but Preston has his back and makes sure he walks. The property value plummets and the tax guys get primo riverfront real estate for their corporate headquarters. Preston gets a nice little kickback—”
“And Booker gets his head hacked off,” Jaime finished.
“You think Booker’s murder ties into this?”
“It sure seems awfully convenient.”
“True. But if they were going to shut him up, there are much quieter ways to pull it off. Put a bullet in him and dump him in the river. Just as effective and draws way less attention.”
“Maybe. But by leaving the body right next to your car, they also get to screw with you. Is there anyone up on that podium right now with enough motivation to do that?”
I thought of Preston pulling the gun in his office. He was scared of something or, more accurately, someone. Someone from whom his money and family connections could not keep him shielded.
She read a text on her phone.
“I’ll email you a copy of the files. I’d be curious to see what that mind of yours can make of it. Maybe you’ll see something I’m missing. In the meantime, I have to go. My boss says something big is breaking.”
“What?”
“No idea. Just told me to get back to the studio, pronto.”
Griffin and his team had been replaced by “trauma eradication professionals.” They were black-clad figures armed with pressure washers, scrub brushes, and twenty-gallon drums of industrial cleaner. Sections of the concrete floor and walls had a scrubbed, antiseptic look to them. Several cans of gray industrial primer were piled in a corner by rollers and folded drop cloths. They seemed like a good crew who knew what they were doing. But I knew that the stains would never erase completely. One way or another, blood always left its mark.
But at least they had washed my truck.
I spent two hours familiarizing myself with Sean Booker’s last eight months with a head. Jaime was right about the pattern. On four occasions, Booker had been arrested in the area now being demolished for corporate headquarters. On all occasions, he was released. One of the arresting officers left a memo in the file protesting the action. The officer had pulled Booker over for a traffic stop and found illegal weapons and drugs in his car. Booker spent all of three hours in a holding cell before being released.
The arresting officer’s name was Jason Rourke.
Rourke noted that Booker was a repeat offender who was caught red-handed on a legal traffic stop. He went on to mention that Booker was exceptionally arrogant during the ordeal, saying several times that he would be out before morning and that Officer Rourke was “making a big mistake.” By Jason Rourke’s estimation, allowing Booker to walk out the front door was the mistake.
Previous to the incident, Rourke had been on the fast track. He received glowing performance reviews and was scheduled to take the sergeant’s exam. But his decision to light up Booker’s Cadillac and haul him in cut his career off at the knees. Two days later, he was informed that his appointment for the sergeant’s exam was canceled due to an unacceptable number of citizen complaints. His next performance review made him out to seem unreliable and incompetent. Sean Booker, meanwhile, never saw the inside of a patrol car again, let alone a courtroom. The area surrounding the boys’ and girls’ club, already among the worst in the county, became a demilitarized zone. Officers refused to answer calls, which was fine because dispatchers seemed to have cut it out of their map. It was prime for the taking, ready for a multinational corporation with deep pockets and deeper connections to come in and usurp, for pennies on the dollar.
Torrez had called Sean Booker a lowlife. That was being generous. Booker was a predator, a virus who sold drugs and guns to kids. He had acted with impunity, knowing he was protected, and worked hard to ruin his own community. Booker was born and raised in the section of town he had been contracted to cripple, but had done it swiftly and thoroughly. Exactly the type of degenerate my father Peter would have loved to exterminate. He would have seen the act as a moral and social obligation, like the beheading of a poisonous serpent. I thought about seeing Booker’s face on the video message, his eyes wild with fear and panic as he realized what was coming. Once the buzzing metal teeth found purchase in his neck, death would have come quick. But those few seconds would surely stretch out like hours.
Even after witnessing the aftermath firsthand, I found it difficult to find sympathy. And hated myself for it. The devil’s firstborn son, finding common ground. I could hear my father’s voice echoing off the walls, preaching, condemning Booker to an eternal pit of fire, praising the one who had taken arms against him and done God’s will.
“Screw you, you crazy fucker,” I muttered, silencing my father’s voice. Nobody deserved that. Booker belonged in prison, not painted over the walls of my building. Eliminating one monster was not just if you merely replaced him with a worse one.
My phone rang. The caller ID showed the number for Jaime Dawson from the news station. I remembered she had received a text from her boss telling her that something big was breaking.
“Jericho, I want to give you a heads-up. Are you watching your TV?” Her voice was a whisper.
“No.”
“Well, turn it on. Now!”
I turned on the television and was greeted by a commercial for air freshener. The product claimed to be able to eradicate any odor, no matter how foul, or your money back. Bullshit, I thought. Nothing could get rid of the stench I smelled last night. Or the one that still lingered downstairs. ‘Eradicate’ that smell, and I would gladly shell out $9.95. To hell with your socks and your pet odor.
Jaime called back. “Is your TV on?”
“It’s on. I can barely hear you. Are calling from a tunnel?”
“Close. I’m in the ladies’ room. My boss would murder me if he knew I was calling you, but you’ve been straight up with me in the past. And you have a right to know.”
“Know what? What’s going on?”
“We’re about to break a huge story. We …” I heard her speak to someone. It sounded like she said she’d be out in a minute.
“I have to go. Just watch. I’ll call you later for a comment.”
She hung up.
The air freshener commercial gave way to one featuring a drug that claimed to treat depression. The disclaimer warned about possible side effects in the rapid speech of an auctioneer. Many of the potential side effects were worse than the symptoms you would take the drug for, including internal bleeding, paranoia, and thoughts of suicide. I never understood how they determined if it was the drug that made the user consider suicide or the actual depression. Maybe that was why drug companies made so much money.
The news came back and Jaime was front and center. Her blond hair was perfectly placed. A sharp black business suit finished the look of a woman who was both fashionable and professional.
“We at Action Channel Eight have received breaking information regarding the horrific act carried out in the Howitzer building. This information, formatted in a video, was allegedly made by the perpetrator of this hideous crime. After careful deliber
ation, we at Action Channel Eight have decided to air this video, in the interest of public safety and the people’s right to be informed. We will be sharing this, as well as any other information we receive, with the authorities. We warn you at this time that some of the scenes are graphic. Make sure that any children and or people with delicate dispositions leave the room.”
The screen went to black. A cascade of red flowed from the top of the screen, simulating a current of flowing blood. It was cheesy, cult horror movie graphics at best, but the effect was disturbing.
“I am the River City Slasher.”
The voice was digitized, unrecognizable. It was the robotic, unfeeling tone of a monster. Moments later, a vision joined the voice. It was a shadow, a cloaked figure that wore what looked like a mask of a skull.
“No one is safe. I could be anyone. I could be anywhere. I can strike at any time.”
The scene showed images of Sean Booker, bound to a chair in my building, moments before meeting his end at the end of a chainsaw. It was the same image as my video message.
“I can get to anyone. No one is safe from me. No one is safe from the River City Slasher. I will strike again. Soon.”
Jaime returned with a menacing photo of a shadowy figure in the upper corner. Below the picture were the words ‘RIVER CITY SLASHER.’ She finished her story but I did not hear anything she said. This had gone way beyond copycatting things I wrote about. This was real. And it was gaining steam.
My phone rang. It was Gus Tanner.
“I saw it,” I said as way of answering.
“I can’t believe they aired that.”
“It’s what they do.”
“Yeah, well, this asshole is a celebrity now. Did you see that hood? It’s like he’s some wannabe Zodiac Killer or something.”
“I’m not sure you want to make that connection, seeing as how the Zodiac Killer was never caught.”
“True.”
“He said he’ll strike again. Soon,” I said.
“Yeah. I caught that. Any ideas on who this person is yet?”
“Wish I did. It’s not some random psycho, I know that much.”
“Have you boarded up that door from the alley yet?”
“Got it this afternoon.”
“Good man. Keep the .45 handy. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I have a bad feeling it’s about to get worse.”
Chapter Six
From the Peoria Examiner:
River City Slasher Tells Peoria He Will Strike Again
Death has fallen upon our community in the form a man who calls himself the River City Slasher. This mysterious individual used Action Channel Eight to announce that not only is he the person responsible for the heinous murder of Sean Booker, but that more victims will follow.
Only speculation can be made as to this individual’s true identity. Many believe that it is local author Jericho Sands. Sands claims to have discovered the dead body of Sean Booker in his building, but has no credible alibi for the crime. According to Congressman Preston Masters, “The police are looking very diligently into Mister Sands’s involvement in this terrible atrocity.” When asked further if he believed that Sands would be capable of committing such a crime, the congressman responded, “This is an individual who has a record of violence and unprovoked attacks. It would not surprise me at all to learn that Jericho Sands was the perpetrator of this hideous crime.”
As yet, the police department has not made an arrest, nor have they identified any other persons of interest.
I ate breakfast standing over the kitchen sink, evaluating my current situation: “person of interest” in the worst crime to ever strike the city. Ex-boyfriend of the hot lead singer of Peoria’s favorite punk band. Sworn enemy of the most powerful congressman in the state. Target for a killer with an unhealthy fascination with my books. It was a lot to digest. Luckily, being a pariah was nothing new to me.
From the window I looked down and saw news vans lined up on the street like beggars for a hot meal. Their logos glistened in the sun, antennas broadcasting to their home stations. I turned on the news and saw a reporter standing outside my building. A caption read REAL LIFE HORROR. A box in the upper corner of the screen played footage of Sean Booker’s body being wheeled out of my building on a stretcher—or rather what was left of his body. A black tarp prevented the camera from getting a good look. But something about the way the tarp folded abruptly at the shoulders made it almost as bad as seeing his head laying twenty feet away from his body.
Along with the news vans, a mob gathered around a burning barrel. They tossed copies of my books into the fire like offerings to an angry god. The reporter interviewed a man identified as Pastor Albert Grimes from Sacred Virgin Church.
“We are here to let our voices be heard!” Grimes shouted. “The works of Jericho Sands go against everything a decent, God-fearing community stands for! We want him out of our bookstores! Out of our town! And out of our lives! It is because of him that this has happened! He has brought this evil upon us! He has brought this evil to our community and to our children!”
I watched, grinding my teeth.
“Jericho Sands is an outsider! An invader! A cancer!”
The protesters waved signs reading JERICHO SANDS WILL BURN IN HELL.
“I am extending an offer. Let Mister Sands come down here. Let him explain himself. Let him tell these good people his reasons for poisoning our society. I want to hear it from his own mouth. And then I want to buy his ticket out of town!” I turned off the television, tossed the remote on the couch, and hurried down the steps. The foyer door swung open, and I was immediately engulfed by the mob. Pastor Albert Grimes was front and center, dressed in a black shirt and white collar. Smoke and ash hung heavy in the air, carrying the scent of brimstone. Pieces of charred paper danced in the breeze.
“You do realize that buying all the copies of my books doesn’t accomplish anything, right? The faster you empty the shelves, the faster the bookstores are going to replace them. All you are doing is inflating my sales numbers. So thanks for that.”
Pastor Grimes took a step forward with an accusatory finger pointed my way.
“Jericho Sands! The son of the devil!”
“Maybe. But you are more like Peter than I am.”
Grimes’s face contorted with outrage. “I’m not a murderer!”
“Really? Where were you Tuesday night between nine and eleven?”
“I don’t answer to you!”
“Nice job evading the question.”
A reporter beat her way through the mob and thrust her microphone between us. “Mister Sands, are you accusing Pastor Grimes of killing the man who was found in your building?”
I took a step forward, getting in the pastor’s face. Sweat formed on his forehead, trickling down his ear. I kept pushing. “I’m just asking a simple question,” I said. “One that Pastor Grimes seems pretty determined not to answer.”
“The only killer standing here is you!” Grimes shouted. Once again, he pointed the finger. He was close enough that it jabbed me right in the chest. Hard. Purely out of reflex, I grabbed his hand and twisted, putting everything I had into it until I heard a crack. Grimes howled. His congregation screamed, as did one of the reporters. She danced around while looking at her camera man.
“Oh my god!” She said. “Did you get that, Steve? Tell me you got that!”
The reporter loved it. She was probably going to get an anchor job out of this. She provided riveting commentary while the deputies lead me away to their car.
The cops at the jail took my mug shot, fingerprinted me, and shoved me into a cell. It was concrete with a small plank bolted to the wall that served as a bed. The door was three inches of solid steel with no window.
Home sweet home.
I waited, cursing myself for my temper. Claustrophobia settled in, and the slate gray walls began to creep inward. Finally, an officer came for me. He explained that Grimes was dropping the assault charges. He told
the officers that he was raised to ‘turn the other cheek’ and that he would not let me corrupt him. All he wanted in return was my promise to stay away from him and his church. I told the deputy that wouldn’t be a problem. Although I wondered why someone who called me ‘The son of the devil’ would put any stock in my word. More likely, he was just trying to make himself look good by not pressing charges.
I walked home, opened a beer and turned on some Jimi Hendrix. The intro for All Along the Watchtower bounced off the walls of the loft while anxiety ran through me like the cold bottle of Newcastle I steadily drained. It was the third day since the murder of Sean Booker. If the killer was planning on using the same timetable as the one in Black as Night, than he was already planning his next attack. The fact that it was Halloween made the possibility of another murder all the more likely. The only question was where. As if to answer my unspoken question, my phone suddenly rang. Already I was learning to hate the sound of it, equating my guitar-riff ringtone to the trumpets of the apocalypse. I picked it up and found another video message. It was titled “Murder is in the air!” It was innocuous enough on the surface, a wobbly video stream of downtown. I saw masses of people in costume lined up Main Street, awaiting entrance to the Dungeon. I looked out the window and saw the spires of the club rising behind the courthouse. Hell Kat had a gig tonight. It would be loud and hectic and swarmed with headbanging heathens in costume. Perfect for a killer to blend in.
Torrez had not bothered to give me a business card after our interview. No surprise. To him, I was the killer. He wasn’t interested in making sure I could contact him. He would be getting back to me the second he found enough proof to arrest me. My call to the station was transferred to his desk.
“Calling to confess?” he asked.
“I just received another video message.” I told him about the video stream and the title. He listened so quietly that I almost thought he hung up.
“He’s going after Katrina,” I said.
“How do you know this?”
