by R. G. Oram
Putting on the sterile gloves he inserted the pick-gun, the tumblers conformingly obliging and succumbing without much resistance.
Vanilla essence stroked his nostrils, making them twitch uncontrollably for a moment. Once inside he was disappointed to find that the apartment was fully furnished. This could be both good and bad for him. He checked the apartment’s walls, knocking a fist lightly; testing their fortitude. No echoes and the sound of his knock returned to him; it would take a sledgehammer to let the neighbours know something was wrong.
Further, the bedroom, some underwear carelessly discarded on the floor, but the bed covers folded back neatly. On a table nearby, a large mirror connected to it and the table top festooned with makeup accessories arranged properly in line. He could smell fragrance in the room, strawberry and something, maybe elderflower.
The only real danger for him was the second exit, in the bathroom. It was at the back of the apartment which took you to the opposite side of the building. A small window and she could fit through, a hundred foot drop, the only sign of refuge. He decided against using the sealant in his bag.
She wouldn’t jump to her death, he reasoned.
Planning her capture was next; he could subdue her in the bedroom. That created more problems, he would have to physically restrain her and transport her through the apartment, all the way to the area next to the front door which would provide the large amount of space he required. Furniture and other objects faced them on the way; she could easily grab one, even if there was a gun in his hand.
He needed to frighten her, cloud her thoughts with fear – block any rational ideas from entering her mind.
Draw her to you, he decided.
One thing that frightened people most was some unknown person in their home. It broke people, destroyed their aura of safety. When that was gone it turned them from superior to helpless – like the home was a spiritual metaphor of a person’s freedom and security, when somebody invaded, the owner was fatally maimed. Their rationality gone, helplessness subdues them.
Yes, he would make noises, loud enough for her to hear and to know he was there. It had to be done late, when most of the neighbours were sleep.
The last thing to do was find a place to hide. He needed somewhere close to the front door and be able to watch her movements. The bedroom was out of the question, bathroom too. A single door behind the furniture, inside it had shelves that stacked towels and bedding, with just enough space for him to fit in. It was already open, not all the way though, he pushed it open more, squeezed in and closed it shut. He inserted a hearing aid, amplifying his auditory range – in case she decided to use a phone. Unlikely she would notice the door’s new position when she came in, if she did then he’d have to improvise.
Hours passed by, he sat on one of the closet’s shelves to alleviate the pressure the claustrophobic space gave to his legs. She finally returned home, countless hours later.
She turned the TV on to rid the place of its perceived loneliness. He heard a trickle of water from the bathroom; she was taking a shower. His gun came out of its preferred pocket, flicking the switch to off. There was a chance she could come in here, grab some towels, but he remembered there were a number of them in the bathroom. But as a precaution he still kept a tight grip on the handgun.
A few times she walked by, not once, however, reaching in. His arm had risen at each pass. Some nature channel was on the TV, he could hear the narrator describing animal hunting patterns.
Near midnight she turned the lights off and the door of her bedroom closing confirmed this. Waiting another hour or so to make sure she was asleep, he pushed the door slowly open. What he hadn’t expected was a loud moaning like a poor violinist trying to entice a crowd with their own kind of music. It screamed through the noiseless apartment.
The hinges on the door needed oiling, he thought. He should have noticed this earlier during his reconnaissance.
He listened, unknown to him if that painstaking sound had awoken her. He had no choice now – he needed to make some noise. Opening drawers, knocking books down, moving chairs, the occasional table, walking on heavy flat feet.
The door to her bedroom opened, he snuck by the bathroom door – turning himself into a spectre. He saw her looking around, searching for something in front of her which resembled a living creature. She was going to lock herself into her room, he could see. He began breathing heavily again, before her mind asserted rational control, banishing any more loose irrational thoughts.
With a start, he noticed she wasn’t retreating or making any sudden movements, like she was frozen. Except that her head was another matter, it moved in all directions. He got himself ready, waiting for one of her stiff legs to lunge forward.
Following her, she went for the straight route; meeting hand crafted resistance. Getting to the door, her hand hard on the door knob – he raised his shooting hand. Putting it to her head, she submitted. He gave her an order to get on the floor, she shuddered violently and complied. He tied the arms together in front and then her ankles behind with climbing rope. Ripping one of the towels with a thick blade, he used it to gag her. Her body was shaking, the word trembling more appropriate. She couldn’t control it, tears stored in the visible eye. The mouth quivered.
Placing his dispatch bag on the floor he extracted from it overalls, not the kind used by blue collars, the type law enforcement personnel wore at crime scenes.
‘Begin.’ he had said.
The intermittent whipping and strangling began. In vain she tried to scream but the towel prevented her. Red irritated marks cut at the corners of her mouth. The bound wrists and ankles squiggled around from the lashings of the whip.
Not planned for, when the hands were crushing the neck, her windpipe broke, she was choking. She would have eventually died from it. He broke the neck, disconnecting it from the spinal cord. All she could do was spiritlessly stare – he had taken everything else away.
The final ‘additions’ were made: he checked the floor, the body, the closet, the bedroom, even the front door, not relapsing into false assumptions.
He got a clear plastic mat and placed it in front of the door. After the mat a portable chair came out of the dispatch bag. He opened its spiralling legs and set them down on top of the mat. Turning the air conditioning on low to keep her fresh. He sat uncomfortably in the foldable chair and waited. He spent the night.
Laid there. Melded there. He watched her hands remain clenched. Watching the fingers, to see if they would open; all that moved were the curtains from the air conditioner’s blast.
Unbuckling the strap of the case, the time getting closer to his departure. He drew out an object with sharp metal teeth and a roll of black polystyrene. He placed the hacksaw down carefully beside her and the waste disposable non-see-through bag alongside. The cooled environment had allowed her body to resist the confinement of rigor mortis. Soon, the endless metal toothy smile of the saw would cut deep and bite savagely tearing through yielding flesh and bone. He was imagining the smell of sweet iron in the blood. How it established his superiority. Making him the elite. The one who ruled. He decided who lived.
Lower limbs first, then the arms, finally the torso. He raised his arm and saw to start the dismembering process, but halted; he saw the panties, forbidding anyone to see her face. The saw still in his hand, unused, he reached for her face. No worry about leaving fingerprints, having the sterile gloves on. He took the underwear on her face off slowly, not wanting to mess her hair.
No makeup. Thin nicely tucked lips, a small neatly formed nose, freckles dampening the high cheek bones, partial wrinkling underlined her hazel eyes – betraying her frequent smiling.
His hand went to touch the side of her face – a knock came at the door behind him. Someone with authority said, ‘Hannah, you awake? ’
He had not moved, not stirring to give away his evidential presence. More kn
ocking, persistent; it seemed they continued to resonate even when the person who caused them had departed with a sigh of frustration.
He stood up, hearing the knee joints click. Returning the underwear to the face, handled the unused saw and thick lined bag, folded up the chair, removed the overalls, lifted the sheeted plastic and put them all back into the bag – later to be burned.
As he saw the sun’s rays sneak through the curtains he listened for any closing of doors or the duo of walking feet. He waited a little longer, in case their owner decided to come back and knock once more, before finally making his needed departure.
Viewing it all in hindsight he should have severed the limbs sooner, giving himself more time and minimising the possibility of detection. After he had finished, all he would have had to do is to put each piece of her in the bag and wait for the most convenient time to leave. When he would have left, carrying the dispatch bag with all his tools and the black garbage bag, he would have aroused little suspicion. If anyone had seen him they would have assumed that, since he was wearing a suit and carrying those bags, he was taking out the trash before going to work; and there would have been no body left at the apartment. If there had been no corpse then the case would have been classified as a disappearance; last year over 600,000 people disappeared in the United States.
Infectious alternate realities circled him, trying to convince himself that leaving the body there had been the best approach. Denial was very cancerous, wanting him to reject the present facts instead of accepting them.
Still sitting upright in bed, he wondered how long the abnegation had sustained. He checked his phone – time to get ready.
Chapter 31
After terminating their sparring discourse with Malcolm Harris, Forsythe and Lewelyn returned to RHD. Office hours had long passed and it was Forsythe’s free weekend – not on call. He and his wife were going to visit their son in San Diego.
They wouldn’t yet be able to obtain a warrant to search Malcolm Harris’s home but Forsythe told Lewelyn he nonetheless had a good feeling. Harris had felt threatened, that was for sure, and the mysterious flash photographer in the house juiced their curiosity. The question being: who took the photo?
Travelling home through the orange sun blanketing the downtown area, nearly losing the race with the rapidly closing sunset. This time his driver was Forsythe; he had offered to give Lewelyn a ride. Forsythe sagely advised Lewelyn to be vigilant. They were known now and certain people would be interested in their progress.
Waving his goodbye to the detective, Lewelyn strode quickly indoors. Feeling dehydrated he urgently filled a glass with water. It wasn’t ice cold, but the colourless liquid did its job, swiftly eliminating the dryness in his mouth. He jogged upstairs to his bedroom, where he studied himself carefully in the elegant wall-hung mirror. Paying close attention to the face, the bruise shrinking, instead of dark purple it was now a light red. A few more days and it should be gone.
His house phone had a few messages, reporters asking his view on the case, one from the ‘twelve year old’ George Taylor. He wondered how they all got his home number, then remembering the present technological advanced reality, there being no such thing as a secret these days. There were a few from his clients, whose calls had been forwarded to his house phone, asking him when he’d be available to assist them – he had no idea.
He let himself plummet onto the couch. The journal still there, in no mood to reminisce, he dropped it casually on to the floor and lay prone, a part of the furniture. He hoped to catch up on lost sleep.
Hope in this case was short lived.
Having snatched what he guessed to be two hours sleep, his house phone rang dictatorially. He sat up, momentarily confused, not able to see a thing. When he first went to embrace sleep, he had forgotten to leave any lights on, so the phone’s colour screen was the only source of guidance in the room.
Stumbling his way across the room, trying not to knock anything over, he got to the phone. It continued to ring. Lewelyn didn’t recognise the number, probably a foreign salesman ignorant of time difference, or curly haired George Taylor. He told himself to let it ring, but instead picked it up with his outstretched hand.
‘Hello?’ Lewelyn managed to say without conviction.
No reply.
‘Hello?’ he repeated. The caller screen said the line was still connected.
Heavy hissing sounded in reply, the kind where someone forced out breath, trying to play the heavy breather at the end of the line, only achieving a cat and a fur-ball hiss.
‘Is that supposed to mean something?’
It stopped, causing the call to be one sided again. Lewelyn expected a hang up but they didn’t.
‘Goodbye,’ Lewelyn said.
‘Guess what I’m thinking,’ actual words came, the voice giddy and strained.
‘Unfortunately I was sick the day they taught mind reading at school,’ Lewelyn put the phone down.
He wasn’t going to waste time talking to strangers he’d never meet. Like Forsythe he had a busy weekend ahead and the conservation of energy was critical.
His unscheduled wake up, energising him with new reserves, to combat nothing it turned out. Hours to go, Lewelyn switched a lamp on, its dim light displaying to him a chaotic array with a low level coffee table in the foreground, providing the perspective to a vast city of cardboard. A yellow piece of paper with cracked skin rested carelessly on the table’s smudged glass surface. It emphasised rigor mortis from previously being crushed into a ball – the corners of the page refused obstinately to touch the table.
Lewelyn picked up the rejected note and brought it closer to the light. He had impermissibly acquired it from Malcolm Harris’s floor. No title headed the collection of words, but he guessed it to be a draft of the actor’s announcement speech for his mayoral campaign.
Harris’s handwriting slanted to the right, showing confidence. He seemed to favour the letter ‘I,’ almost one in every sentence; the individual vowel was inscribed a lot bigger than any of the other members of the alphabet. Lewelyn eagerly applied his knowledge of graphology, to identify the behavioural characteristics Malcolm Harris unwittingly revealed within his writing.
The forming of the words begged a close inspection. They slithered up and down in steady trails, closing the spacing of letters in a serpentine style.
‘Talk about an ego.’
Chapter 32
Before going back to sleep Lewelyn disarmed the phone from its socket, nobody was going to interrupt his sleep anymore. He set the alarm for five and almost instantly slipped into a deep, suffusing sleep. The alarm woke him abruptly with a piercing tone. He slowly got out of bed and stretched gently, before luxuriating in a long relaxing shower and dressing. Not wearing the conventional suit for work, he went for a long sleeve t-shirt and jeans. Having little choice on what food to eat, he heated a microwavable dinner for breakfast, devouring it quickly. Replenished, he grabbed all the necessary essentials for a road trip, including a flask. Then he used an app on his phone, requesting a driver to take him to LAX.
Signing the papers and given the keys he went in search of his reserved vehicle.
Just before leaving RHD yesterday, Lewelyn had secretly rented a car from a vehicle rental agency, using his own smart phone and not the desktop computer owned by the LAPD.
He searched along a row of gleaming parked up vehicles for the bay number he had been allocated and, finding it mid way along, relieved to find that it matched the vehicle of his choice. It was a small SUV, average engine size, thankfully not a stick. He climbed into the driver’s seat. Seatbelt on, started the ignition, engine running, brake released, tyres rolling forward.
At first he felt the same old tension when he tentatively placed his hands on the wheel of the unfamiliar vehicle. As he guided the car forward, he noticed his knuckles were more pointed than normal, like they planned to
burst through the skin. But soon he emerged onto empty roads and, with nothing seemingly to worry about Lewelyn elegantly eased back into driving.
Not that he couldn’t drive, just too much of a risk these days. There were too many idiots and heavy footers on the road.
It made him think what it would be like if the car did everything for you.
His plan was to watch and follow Malcolm Harris. The man was involved, how much he did not know. Not sure what he might find – if he would find anything. Earlier Lewelyn had considered abandoning this venture. He didn’t have authority, and even if he found something what could he do? If he reported something, he would literally admit to following the man, they’d probably arrest him as a celebrity stalker.
He wasn’t going to let it happen again if he could help it. Hannah’s mother may not know her own daughter anymore but that didn’t matter. What mattered was, whoever did it, they took the most precious thing of all from Hannah, what we all have; some have it shorter than others:
To see. To touch. To feel. To cry. To laugh. To care.
That’s what was stolen from her and somebody out there thinks they could deprive anyone of it – rob them of the chance to…
Outside, in Malcolm Harris’s street, parked where he hoped he afforded little suspicion, the SUV facing the mountainous slope at the edge of the street, making him look like someone who was visiting and there being no space at their destined point of visitation, so having to park in an inconvenient place. Lewelyn hoped they didn’t have a neighbourhood watch.
The upcoming politician’s home visible from a distance, Harris’s sports car was still in the driveway; its silver paint absorbed the sun’s rays, allowing none to admire its detailed body for long. Lewelyn unscrewed his flask and poured some coffee into a hard plastic cup. Purposely he had poured large amounts of the dark stuff into the flask, not to be consumed for pleasure but for alertness; he needed to be vibrantly active for two full days.
