Swallowed By The Cracks e-Pub

by Lee Thomas, Gary McMahon, S. G. Browne, Michael Marshall Smith

  A photograph had been printed on the paper. Though the image was clear his mind took several moments to process it:

  A middle-aged man in ecstasy…

  An adolescent boy in pain…

  Both unclothed…

  "Shit," Dean hissed. His blood grew thin and hot, racing through his veins like acid. His heartbeat turned to thunder in his ears. He jerked his head toward the photograph and asked, "The older guy our victim?"

  "Looks that way."

  Good, he thought.

  "I'll bet his computer is choking on these things. The men with candy like their glossies."

  "Could be," Dean replied. "It certainly gives us a hell of a motive if that kid's not a pro."

  His pulse continued to race and his face burned. Dean's head grew light for a moment, and he drew in a deep breath to quiet his ragged nerves. He gave the disgusting picture a final glance then turned away.

  The monitor on the glass desk before him swirled with colors. He reached out and jabbed the space bar on the keyboard with his index finger. The screen saver disappeared to reveal the computer's desktop.

  Amid the folders and application icons displayed on the screen, a window was open in the center of the screen. Dean found himself looking at the crimson fluid pooling on Charles Clarke's bed. Men and women wearing masks and gloves – the forensic team – worked over the surfaces of the room.

  "What the hell?" Harper asked.

  "Video cam," Dean replied. "The sick fuck has one hidden in the bedroom."

  "Remember, 'the sick fuck' happens to be the victim in this case."

  Dean disregarded the statement. He stared at the monitor, the bed, the room, the people moving there unaware of his watching.

  "If this thing was recording, our job just got a hell of a lot easier," Harper said.

  "Yeah," Dean said. "Maybe."

  * * * * *

  Lifeless stifling air poured into the office. Already uncomfortable, the stale atmosphere felt suffocating. Through the window on his door, Dean looked over the expanse of the station. Half of the desk lights were off, and the floor was deserted. His colleague's on the Clarke case were off in different departments, checking on forensics, running phone numbers, grabbing cups of coffee for the long night ahead. The scene gave him the creeps, and he turned away. Dean opened the window and stuck his head into the wintry night.

  For now, Dean waited. Charles Clarke's computer was in the hands of the techs downstairs. Departmental procedures were in place to assure data wasn't corrupted. Plus, if the family of the victim came forward to claim defamation of character once Clarke's crimes hit the press, the department could cover its ass with reams of detailed paperwork.

  Currently, this last point was likely far more important to the Barnard Police Department than the investigation.

  After word of Clarke's twisted pastime had made its way through the crime scene, the attitudes of the on-scene investigators had immediately changed. The eagerness to find the murderer seemed to drain from his colleagues' eyes, making room for disgust. Dean understood the reaction; he'd felt it himself. Did Clarke deserve to die for molesting children? The law said no, but Dean certainly wouldn't lose any sleep over his passing. No, his slumber would be sacrificed to anger. In the aftermath of this crime, Clarke wouldn't be seen as a hebephile or pederast, he'd be seen as a homo deviant, emphasis on the homo.

  Likely Dean's colleagues were already growling about it in the locker room, volleying misguided opinions through the sweat-thick air, liberally peppering their dialogue with words like "queer," "cocksucker," and "fag." Fortunately, they knew better than to get in his face with that shit.

  It was infuriating; being painted with a brush frayed by the behaviors of a monster like Charles Clarke. Were all straight men rapists? Were all straight men responsible for JonBenet or Megan Kanka? No. But some fuck like Clarke gets exposed and the idiot faction processes it as another example of the predatory queer.

  Harper entered the office carrying a cup of coffee and a thick folder. "We got the most recent pictures," he said, crossing to the desk and setting his mug down. "They cover the last two years. The techies are transferring the video clips to DVD now. They're starting with tonight and working their way back. Should have the disk in a few minutes."

  "Why didn't they start with the vids? That's our best chance of catching this guy."

  "You just answered your own question. My guess is they'd erase the things if they could. Hell, they'd probably buy the guy dinner and put him on a plane to Rio if they had the chance." Harper chuckled and placed the folder on the desk.

  "Glad you're so amused," Dean said, still fuming.

  "Don't play that shit with me," Harper said. "I know what's going through your head, and I get it. I do. We can discuss it all over breakfast or a beer, but right now we have the job. So save the rage; sit your ass down; and let's get to work."

  Dean accepted Harper's direction and sat; his partner was right. He pulled the folder toward him and lifted the manila flap. "Sorry," he muttered, gazing at a photograph similar to the one he'd seen in Clarke's home office.

  Dean shook his head, flipping through the two-dozen photographs. He identified seven different boys. At least one of them was from the streets; Dean could tell by the shabby jeans and tattered tennis shoes he wore, but this was the only kid that was dressed in the pictures. Others might have been runaways, hustlers or kids from Clarke's neighborhood. It was hard to tell. The very rich and the very poor had the same hairstyles these days.

  As for Clarke, he was a bland looking man with a dark suntan. His white hair lay back against his scalp in a perfect wave, looking as properly coiffed as a banker, a real estate agent or a political candidate.

  "I don't get it," Dean said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The attraction to youth." That wasn't exactly what he meant. Dean knew the psychology. Clarke's crimes weren't about sexual attraction so much as they were about control and loathing, but every goddamn television commercial and magazine ad pushed this youth shit down his throat. Ten year olds dolled up to look like whores. Nineteen-year-old pop star has-beens. According to those advertising fucks, people were supposed to desire children. But if one of their neighbors actually acted on it and went all bad touch on one of their kids, they'd be the first ones to form an action group. The first ones to ask 'why my child?' It's a wonder the whole fucking country hadn't gone pedophile. "I just don't get it."

  "What's to get? You have youth on the left and old age and death on the right. You keep looking to the left because what's on the right scares the hell out of you."

  "I've never dated a guy under thirty." Truth was, he rarely dated men under forty. Younger men all looked somehow unfinished to Dean. He found a few of them pretty, but found none of them attractive. Only when youth was shed for a more distinct masculinity did men appeal to Dean. He knew it was uncommon. Some of his friends even considered his preference a pathology, but he didn't care if his friends got hard for his dates or not; they didn't have to fuck the guys.

  "You're not afraid of death," Harper said.

  "Come again?"

  "Never mind. Look, we need to run these pics through juvy and social services and see if we can get a match."

  "Did any names appear in Clarke's files?" Dean asked.

  "Nope. He numbered them. Kept them all in a folder labeled 'Puppies.'"

  "Charming," Dean said.

  * * * * *

  Dean rewound the digital movie until the moment before the man entered Charles Clarke's bedroom. Clarke lay naked on his bed. Freshly showered, he looked relaxed and comfortable. No shades of remorse or shame colored the man's face in the aftermath of his abuse. The prick even waved at the camera and grinned. His unrepentant satisfaction infuriated Dean, distur
bing him deeply and far too personally.

  At fifteen, Dean had experienced his first sexual encounter, with a man three times his age. For Dean, it had been consensual. The man, Rick, had done nothing but present the opportunity, he hadn't gotten Dean drunk, hadn't drugged him or enticed him with porn. Rick asked if Dean wanted to get sucked off and Dean had said, "Yes." All of his friends at school talked about having sex, and Dean was determined to have it, though not precisely as his friends would have; his peers' tastes ran towards actresses, cheerleaders, and swimsuit models.

  A month later, Rick was arrested for forcing sex on a nine-year-old boy. He committed suicide in a jail cell three floors down from where Dean currently sat.

  The man's arrest, highly publicized in the local paper because of his position as a teacher, had terrified Dean. He listened, ashamed, as kids at school talked about the "fag teacher," emphasizing that suicide was too good for the pervert. For weeks Dean had lived in fear, convinced his friends already knew what he'd done or would soon know. The fear had filled Dean's chest like shards of glass. It would be ten years before he was again intimate with a man.

  As an adult, looking back on that time in his life, the shame of that encounter rekindled, but not for the reasons some might imagine. His fear had changed over the years to guilt. He understood the teacher's aberrant behavior. Dean knew that he wasn't to blame for Rick's sickness, but he couldn't help but think his acquiescence had encouraged the teacher's crimes. Ridiculous, he knew. Rick had been a molester long before Dean had ever entered the man's life, but if Dean had known enough to deny the man, to stop him, a nine-year-old boy – an innocent who couldn't fathom let alone consent to the teacher's demands – wouldn't carry the lifelong scars of Rick's touch.

  On the screen, Charles Clarke rolled from his bed startled and clutching at the duvet to cover himself as he scurried across the mattress. He shouted for someone to get out of his house.

  Then another man entered the shot, standing in partial profile, head turned as if aware of the camera. He wore loose-fitting blue jeans and a black T-shirt. Dean noted the bulk of muscle beneath the garments. He estimated the man stood six-feet tall and weighed 240-250 pounds. He appeared to be younger than Clarke, but not young. His hair was thick, with salty strands lightening the near black hue.

  "I have an alarm. The police are coming," Clarke claimed.

  "The alarm isn't set," his killer said evenly. "You didn't set it. You never do after your crimes. You never lock your doors. When you're done with them and send them on their way, your deepest wish is for their return, their subservience, their adoration. You want them to misinterpret what you did to them as love."

  "I'll pay you," Clarke cried. "I'll…"

  Before he could finish the next sentence, the killer crossed the room in four quick strides, revealing nothing of his face. He landed a ferocious punch to Clarke's jaw. Even with poor sound, Dean heard Clarke's bones crack beneath the blow. The abuser dropped to the carpet unconscious. His killer bent low and lifted the man and tossed him onto the bed as easily as discarding a robe before dressing. Then the killer pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a powerful back and thick shoulders. He folded the shirt and removed his pants and shoes. He stacked the clothing tidily and carried it off camera, perhaps into the hall. Then he returned.

  Clarke's murderer walked to the edge of the bed, head canted away from the observing lens. He leaned over Clarke and bit into the man's thigh. Skin ripped and gouts of blood poured over the leg. It happened quickly. No hesitation or clumsiness. Then it happened again. The killer didn't chew the flesh, but rather spat it out in the rapidly forming pool of blood. Clarke came to then. Frantic eyes as wide and white as golf balls dominated his features. He opened his mouth to scream but all that emerged from his throat was a shrill hiss.

  The killer changed his position, moving closer to the headboard. His palm went to Clarke's brow. He shoved the abuser's head back into the pillow, and then he leaned forward and ripped Clarke's throat out with his teeth.

  Dean stopped the clip and rewound to the point just before the killer dipped his head to take out Clarke's throat. In this action he revealed more of his face – a full cheek, a strong jaw smeared with Clarke's blood, the crescent pool of an eye socket. The blood acted as a mask, making clear identification impossible, but Dean would know this man if he met him.

  The killer reminded Dean of a teacher named Rick.

  * * * * *

  Interviews with Charles Clarke's neighbors yielded nothing of value. Like all good neighbors, they minded their own business. The time counter on Clarke's computer put the time of death at 5:33 p.m., which meant there was still some light in the sky when the murderer let himself into Clarke's house, but of the neighbors who were home at that time of the evening none could "recall" seeing anything of interest.

  The techs went through Clarke's computer several times, looking for the names or addresses of victims. They scanned his Internet browser history, trying to ascertain if he'd met his victims (perhaps his killer) in a chat room. They combed his emails, seeking evidence of pornography trafficking, possibly the names of other men who shared his disease. After twenty-four hours, they'd found nothing. Apparently, Clarke was a rarity: insular in his perversion.

  The video itself was of little help. Though the murderer was distinct in appearance – muscular, middle-aged – there wasn't enough of the man's face to capture a functional image. They couldn't put the back of his head on the departmental website or the six o'clock news and hope to field accurate leads.

  No, despite having captured their killer on tape, the break in the case required a little more effort. Clarke's cell phone records showed a call to Capital Taxi at 4:48 on the afternoon of his death. Based on the video clock, this would have been shortly after his abuse of the boy Clarke had labeled "Puppy Number 16a."

  The boy was featured in several of Clarke's photographs and at least one video. He was the frightened boy with the grimace of pain in the photo Harper had lifted from Clarke's printer.

  Following up with the cab company, Dean got an address for a home on Arnold Street in a rundown residential district called Four Points – about as far from Clarke's Country Club address as was possible while remaining within the city limits. The home was owned by a property management group and leased to Mr. Jesse Bolton and his wife Janis. The couple had been under lease on the property for just over nine months. They were currently two months behind on the rent. Both had records with the Barnard Police Department – drunk and disorderlies and a DUI for Mr. Bolton – and both were on file with social services, stemming from an incident involving their son, Matthew.

  With the address plugged into the GPS system, Dean drove across town. Harper occupied the passenger seat.

  "So how are we going to handle this?" Harper asked. "I mean if this is the Puppy's address."

  "Could you not call him that?" It had been bad enough seeing the demeaning term listed among Clarke's documentation; he saw no point in encouraging its use from his partner.

  "Fine. Regardless. We check the place out, meet Jesse Bolton and realize he isn't our guy, cross everyone off the suspect list, then what?"

  "Then we inform the parents their son has been abused and suggest they get him therapy so he doesn't end up as fucked up as Clarke."

  "You think a family in Four Points can afford to send their kid to a shrink?"

  "There are services available."

  "If they'll use them."

  "That's their decision to make."

  "I hate this shit."

  "We all hate this shit," Dean replied.

  He drove out of downtown and over a viaduct, spanning a broad ditch filled with litter, scrub grass and the cardboard homes of those who found even Four Points out of their price range. The houses on the far side of the bridge were single and doubl
e story wrecks with peeling paint and sagging porches. Shingles draped loose on rooftops like scabs displaced by eczema. Most of the vehicles – pickup trucks, cheap sedans, bloated mini-vans – offered transportation if not style. Grass browned by early frost and grown wild from indifference ran from property to property, the yards differentiated only by the junk littering them. Four Points was the colon of the city; a dismal and diseased organ processing a constant flow of waste and toxicity.

  An exception to the decaying appearance of the district caught Dean's eye as he turned down Arnold Street. One house wore a fresh coat of white paint; it's roof looked healthy and the yard was, if not lush, well maintained and free of trash. It looked like a single healthy tooth amid a rotted mouth. At the corner of this house, Dean saw a man, wearing a red ski parka and blue jeans. His dark hair was brushed back neatly. White threads lightened the field of near-black strands.

  A frisson of recognition ran through his chest.

  Is that him? Dean wondered. He played back Clarke's video in his mind. The man beside the house on his left was certainly the right size, and the hair was similar if not identical. Jesus, that could be him.

  "You missed it," Harper said.

  "Missed what?"

  "The house," his partner said. "The GPS chick said we arrived at our destination. Don't you listen?"

  "Yeah, right," Dean said. He pulled to the curb, turning his head to keep the man in his field of vision. The front tire rolled up on the sidewalk, jolting the car to a stop.

  "Watch the rubber," Harper said.

  But Dean was watching the man across the street and two doors back. He stared in the mirror, refocusing his eyes as if the act might magnify the man's image or produce a clear identification.