Bloody Sunrise: An electrifying psychological thriller

by Gregg Bell

  “Step Three,” said the young woman leading the meeting. “Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him.”

  Denny sniggered. God had hardly done that great of a job with his life so far. But then he admitted to himself he’d hardly done a good job of turning things over either. What was the saying in the AA ‘Big Book’? Half measures availed us nothing.

  Around the room it went until the reading was done. Now the young woman gave a lead on the step. Denny poured himself another cup of coffee. He offered the pot to George who shook his head. The lead done, next up was comments.

  Denny had the same reaction to every meeting he attended. Namely, deeply cynical skepticism followed by a bit by bit lightening of his spirit and softening of his heart. A gradual acknowledgment that this whole AA thing wasn’t nonsense and that these people weren’t kooks. A guy Denny had never seen before was first to comment. Twenties maybe. Longish black hair but shaved on the sides. He wore a blue and gray striped t-shirt—really short sleeves, like a French sailor or something—which was weird because of how cold it was. Honestly, the guy looked like he didn’t belong, in the club, in AA, in Chicago.

  “I’m Magnus and I’m an alcoholic,” the guy said, acknowledging the young woman who’d started the meeting with a nod. “Thanks for your lead.”

  Denny was thinking that was it. The guy wasn’t saying anything more, but then he started nodding as if he’d overcome some sort of inner barrier.

  “Yes, I’m Magnus and I can say now that I really am powerless over alcohol.” He pulled his long hair from one side of his head to the other. Denny felt for sure the guy was done now but again he was wrong.

  “I say that,” the guy said, “because of what happened a couple of nights ago.” He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “Because a couple of nights ago I just lost it. I did something I can never undo.” He stared down at the table. “And it’s been eating me up inside ever since, and I knew that if I didn’t tell somebody, I was going to get drunk again. So I’m telling you guys.” He breathed in deep. “I know the program tells me I can make amends to the people I’ve harmed, but I’m...” He looked all around, including at Denny. “...never going to be able to make amends to this person. Ever.”

  It was crazy but Denny was thinking that the guy didn’t really seem that remorseful for whatever he’d done.

  “And I feel so grateful that although I can never make amends to this woman...”

  Denny’s heart constricted when he heard him say ‘woman.’

  “...and that I can never ask her forgiveness.” He smiled. “That you all forgive me. Yes, that you all forgive me. Thanks for listening.”

  Denny was flabbergasted. As the guy had begun commenting it sounded like it would be the garden variety toxic shame people spew in meetings all the time. You’ve got to get it out or it overwhelms you. But as the guy had gone on and on, Denny had felt more and more creeped out. Why couldn’t the guy make amends to the woman? And whatever happened happened a couple of nights ago? Rashida was murdered a couple of nights ago.

  But that was craziness, Denny told himself, while the comments went around. The guy could have been talking about anything at all. He broke up with his girlfriend who moved out of state and told him never to contact her. He owed his grandma an amends and she died before he could make it.

  But the guy was different too. Denny had the strongest vibe that he didn’t belong. I mean, come on, the guy didn’t even seem like an alcoholic. So could he have...could he have killed Rashida? A Streets & Sanitation truck dropped its snowplow on the street outside the club and the boom shook Denny from his reverie. He realized the guy next to him was done commenting, and the young woman leading the meeting was asking if he wanted to speak.

  “Uh,” he said. “Uh, my name’s Denny O. and I’m an alcoholic...”

  “Hi Denny” came the chorus of replies.

  “...and I pass.”

  * * *

  Denny really wanted to hear George’s comment at the meeting but he was too disturbed by what this Magnus had said to be able to take it in. Magnus was like the pyromaniacs that get off on watching the fires they’ve set. A home is burning down at three a.m. Terrified neighbors come out in housecoats, robes and slippers to watch with dread as what their neighbor worked so hard for goes up in flames. While one guy watching, however, is fully dressed and has a look of elation, no, ecstasy, on his face. That’s the arsonist. That’s why the fire department takes photos of every crowd watching a fire, because the guy that doesn’t fit in may show up again and again.

  And this Magnus didn’t fit in.

  George’s comment was over. Only one other person remained to speak but Denny’s mind raced so fast he couldn’t hear her either. This Magnus wasn’t an alcoholic. He didn’t belong in the neighborhood. He wasn’t remorseful for what he’d done. And, what the hell, he just may have killed Rashida.

  After the meeting ended, Magnus popped up, slipped on a gray leather jacket and headed for the door. Denny went after him.

  George looked up. “Hey, Denny, where you going?”

  Denny caught up with the guy at the bottom of the stairs. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  Magnus turned, his eyes going wide. “What?”

  “Sorry if I caught you off guard but I was listening to what you were saying in there and wondered if I could ask you a few questions.” Denny smiled. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, I need to be somewhere.”

  “No problem.” Denny nodded. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Magnus shrugged and headed out the door. “I gotta tell you, this feels kind of weird, man. What do you want to know?”

  Denny half felt like Detective Washington. “It would really help me if I knew what you did a couple of nights ago that you feel so bad about.”

  Magnus looked at him sidelong. “Really? Why?”

  “Well.” Denny put his hands in his pockets to shield them from the swooping sheets of snow crystals blown from a rooftop. “Because I think I might’ve done something similar.”

  Magnus stopped walking. The sun was diving below the horizon, or if not, it was so buried beneath overcast skies it seemed to be. The temperature had to be in the teens. Denny was freezing but didn’t care. And yes, he felt like he was out of control but it was too late to stop now.

  Magnus said, “Well, if you have to know, I was responsible for a business lunch at a restaurant, and the waitress working our party hustled her tail off taking care of us. When I went to pay at the register I dug in my pocket for my car keys and they weren’t there. Well, I was fully intending to get change and go back and leave a tip, but in the excitement I forgot.”

  Denny nodded and walked back to the club, more convinced than ever that he was losing his mind.

  * * *

  Denny had been too embarrassed to even apologize to Magnus. Yeah, he was losing it. He knew it. But with all the uncertainty surrounding Rashida’s murder, with all the rumors swirling, and with his having been in the blackout when she was killed, it was making it impossible to think, to sort things out. And yet he had to sort things out. He had to before he was arrested and Rashida’s killer got away for good—or killed again. He grabbed his coat, said goodbye to George at the Serenity Club and drove to Aunt Elizabeth’s. Maybe she had new information from the private investigator, and at the very least he could apologize for hitting on Gabriela.

  Murphy’s law. Wouldn’t you know it? Gabriela was super friendly, all smiley when he walked in. He couldn’t help it—a beautiful woman being so friendly always lit him up.

  “Welcome Zen master,” she said with a wink.

  “Yeah.” He laughed. What was he supposed to do? Ignore her? He nodded toward Aunt Elizabeth’s office. “Can she talk?”

  “I think so. Give me just a second, okay?” Gabriela picked up the phone. “Your nephew is here.” She nodded a few times and hung up. She smiled at him again and said, “You can go
back.”

  Denny exhaled deeply and shook his head as he walked to his aunt’s office. Could he help it if Gabriela was so beautiful? And that she was flirting with him? Aunt Elizabeth was on the phone again. She waved him to sit. She looked tired, her brow furrowed, eyes bloodshot.

  Denny was psyching himself to be more aggressive about finding Rashida’s killer. The scumbag was still out there, walking around free and could kill again. Yeah, he was going to find the guy. But first he needed to apologize for hitting on Gabriela. Still he was thinking—Summer was acting so crazy lately, maybe he ought not give up on Gabriela just yet. He sighed. Like everything else in his life it was complicated.

  Aunt Elizabeth hung up. “Well?”

  “Aunt Elizabeth, I wanted to apologize for the whole Gabriela thing.”

  She looked at him for quite a while. “Okay. Apology accepted.”

  “And I wanted to touch base. To see if anything new came up.”

  “I’m glad you did.” She slipped on eyeglasses and picked up a document. “It seems your friend Orson has a serious problem telling the truth.”

  Here we go, Denny thought. “Like I was telling you, the guy’s been acting really strange lately.”

  “The private investigator checked into his background about his having to quit medical school.”

  Denny nodded. “Yeah, his mom got sick and he had to quit to pay for her treatment.”

  “But that wasn’t the case.” She set the document down. “He was actually forced to quit for failing the school’s moral turpitude rule.”

  “Moral turpitude?”

  “It’s a rule that requires a student’s conduct be in line with community standards of justice, honesty and good morals.”

  “Okay.” He rubbed his chin. “So how did he break the rule?”

  She took off her glasses and looked at him. “He was accused of giving a co-ed a date rape drug.”

  Denny tilted his head at her. Orson. No way.

  “Orson countered that wasn’t the case. A medical exam wasn’t done quickly enough to determine if the drug was still in the young woman’s system, and Orson claimed boldly the administration had no evidence. Still they were able to force him out under the moral turpitude clause.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’m surprised the fire department hired him.”

  “You know what, they probably didn’t know. None of us firemen did. So what does all this mean, to the bigger picture?”

  She planted her elbows on the desk and steepled her hands in front of her face. “It means Orson is unreliable. It means, his accusing Brig is suspect. It means...he’s dangerous.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Orson. The weasel. Orson. It was all about Orson now. Denny left Aunt Elizabeth’s pointedly not flirting with Gabriela, who seemed disappointed he didn’t. But no, Denny had to keep his focus. Everything pointed at Orson now, if not as Rashida’s killer, at least as the wild card injecting confusion into the situation, lying about when he left The Wild Bull, being buddy-buddy with Detective Washington, accusing Brig of killing Rashida, and hell, of wanting to take Brig out. Denny was determined to get answers from him. He called and got his voicemail. He didn’t leave a message, figuring to keep the element of surprise on his side. Man—Denny shuddered—he was thinking more and more like Detective Washington.

  Now what?

  It was nearly seven p.m. A few of the guys would be at The Wild Bull already. He could go there just to see if Orson showed. No drinking. No, he’d go in just to talk to him, get the answers he needed and get out. Yeah right, he told himself, rolling his eyes. That was a joke. Again, no drinking in a bar. Ha ha. Like the AA people always say: ‘If you hang around slippery places, sooner or later you’re gonna slip.’ So The Wild Bull was out. Or was it? Denny’s brow furrowed. Something always seemed to draw him there like an electro-magnet. “Drinking is just who I am,” he said aloud to no one at all as he pulled away from Aunt Elizabeth’s office. “I’m going there.”

  And anyway, at least there was the possibility he wouldn’t drink, right? He shook his head. Who was he fooling—he was going there to get drunk. Deep down he’d already succumbed to the urge. And once he’d done that, getting drunk was a foregone conclusion, a done deal. He thought of the AA meeting he’d attended earlier in the day. “Damn!” He hated that he did. He’d heard it before. ‘AA will screw up your drinking.’ He wasn’t even to The Wild Bull yet and he felt like it was already screwing up his. The AA meeting had been on the third step. Turning your will over to God. Ha ha ha, Denny thought. Lot of good God was doing him. Look at the mess his life has become.

  He parked the Camaro and hurried, slipping and sliding on the icy sidewalk, to The Wild Bull, letting his sense of God failing him strengthen his feeling of deserving to get drunk. He pulled his hood up against a gust of wind and turned the corner—the bar was right there. Step Three, he could still hear the young woman who’d led the meeting saying. Practicing Step Three is like the opening of a door which to all appearances is still closed and locked.

  He pulled on The Wild Bull’s door. It didn’t open. He tried again. Again, the door didn’t give. “What’s going on?” He looked through one of the windows. It was dark inside. He couldn’t make out a thing. He checked his watch. 7:15 p.m. Was he dreaming? Was he losing his mind? He went back to the door. This time he noticed a note taped there.

  Sorry for the inconvenience. We are temporarily closed. Will re-open tomorrow at six p.m. Thanks. The Management

  He sensed someone behind him.

  “I’ve seen it before. Probably cockroaches. The health department shut ’em down.”

  Denny recognized Brig’s voice and turned. “Brig.”

  “It’s me. In the flesh.” Brig held his arms wide like he was posing for a picture. “I didn’t have a lot of time to kill here anyway, so it’s probably just as well. What about you?”

  “Uh.” Denny inhaled deeply. “I just wanted to hang out a bit.”

  “Yeah, that’s all we ever do here, right, Den? Hang out.” Brig laughed. “But hey, this is good because I needed to talk to you.”

  Denny felt his heart beating faster. “Let me guess. It’s got something to do with Lieutenant Kierny.”

  “Yes and no. Yes, in that Kierny told me you’re not getting suspended so that’s good. But I’ve some info from my friend in CPD about Rashida’s murder.”

  Denny leaned against the door. He was relieved to hear he was back in at the firehouse but what was the rest of this? Brig had a friend in the police department who knew something about Rashida’s murder? Was he ready to hear this? “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. She got a quick look at the forensic report. Rashida had no flesh under her fingernails. And there were no defensive wounds. Except for chafing on her wrists.”

  Denny shook his head. “No way,” he said but he was breathing easier, thinking that with the scratches on his arms the ‘no flesh under her fingernails’ just about ruled him out as the killer.

  “Yeah, that’s what she said.” Brig crossed his arms over his chest and shifted from foot to foot. “And a message was scrawled on the wall.”

  Denny felt pinned to the door. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear any more. “Okay.”

  “It just said, ‘Jesus is the way.’”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Brig shrugged.

  “It must mean something, Brig.”

  “Well, it’s not too Muslim-friendly, I can tell you that.”

  “And what about the rest of it?”

  “Denny, I’ll talk to you another time but besides freezing, I’ve gotta be somewhere.”

  “But the chafing on her wrists? I don’t get that either.”

  Brig widened his eyes. “Handcuffs.”

  “You kidding me?”

  Brig shook his head.

  “But—”

  “I gotta go.” He started walking.

  “Hey.” Denny followed him. “Where you headed?”
/>
  “To the VA Hospital to visit wounded vets.”

  “I can go with you.”

  “Hey, that’s cool, Den, but it’s more of a soldier to soldier thing.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Denny let him go. But his mind was racing.

  * * *

  Denny stood on the sidewalk in front of The Wild Bull. No flesh under Rashida’s fingernails. He was no cop but even he realized that meant he’d gotten the scratches on his neck and arms some other way. And yeah that meant, at least it pointed in that direction anyway, he didn’t kill Rashida. God in heaven. It felt like so much information was hurtling at him. He had to think of where he’d parked. Okay. He started walking.

  And the message on the wall. Jesus is the way. That had to be anti-Muslim. Yeah, had to be. He climbed into the Camaro. He thought of Brig and Rufus Tucker with their anti-Muslim fanaticism.

  Lastly, handcuffs. That could mean anything. He thought of Powell with his kinky sex reputation. And then, yeah, it was possible—cops. They obviously had handcuffs. He turned the ignition and cranked the heater. It could’ve even been Detective Washington. But Washington had nothing to do with Rashida. Not that Denny knew of anyway. No cops did. But wait a minute. Wait a minute. Oh God, wait just a minute. How could he have forgotten? He had a pair of handcuffs back at his apartment.

  Despite the heater running on high, a blast of fear streaked through his body and he shuddered. It seemed hard to believe. He hadn’t used the handcuffs for anything. He couldn’t even remember where they were or why or how he’d gotten them in the first place. The more he thought about it, it was insane he even had them. But yeah, he had them all right. He remembered testing them on himself, the cool steel, the serrated end clicking rhythmically as it tightened to the other side. My God, he owned a pair of handcuffs.

  He raced home. He had a brief thought, the briefest really, about how amazing it was The Wild Bull had been closed, which kept him from drinking. He was thinking about the Third Step and how it said Practicing Step Three is like the opening of a door which to all appearances is still closed and locked. He shook his head. The Wild Bull’s door had been closed and locked. And people say there’s no God. Hell, he usually said there was no God. But the odds of something like that happening the way it did by chance had to be astronomically small. But whatever. He still had mega trouble on his hands.