City of Heretics

by Heath Lowrance

  He got in, popped the ignition, got it going in about twenty seconds. He put the car in gear, backed out of the space, and headed for the road. After driving the Jag around for a couple of days, the Taurus felt stiff and unresponsive, but beggars couldn’t be luxury car drivers.

  He turned onto Sam Cooper and headed north, not feeling near as anonymous as he wanted to be.

  When he was well into the suburbs he found a quiet residential street and pulled into it. It took only a couple of minutes to find a suitable car parked at the curb. Feeling conspicuous as all hell, he glanced up and down the street, took a screwdriver to the parked car’s license plate, and switched it with the Taurus’.

  So that was one precaution seen to. The other one: the bandage on his face. The cops would be looking for that. He wasn’t certain the wound was ready to go without bandages, but he didn’t see any other options.

  A grimy service station restroom served as medical station. In the smudgy mirror, he carefully pulled the bandage off, washed his face as thoroughly as he could with the pump soap, and examined the wound.

  The scar didn’t look as swollen or traumatic as before, or maybe he was just more prepared this time. In the strange fluorescent light it looked gray and unreal, as if his face was made of clay and someone had furrowed a line right through his left eye.

  He’d have to get used to it. No use moaning.

  Hello, Crowe. How you liking Memphis so far? Time of my life, brother, time of my life.

  It wasn’t quite noon yet, which meant he had more than seven hours before he had to meet Radnovian. The apartment was out, obviously. And he couldn’t contact him by phone to set up a new meeting place—whether he liked it or not, Rad would be part of the effort to bring Crowe in now.

  Fine, Crowe thought. He’d just have to set up a more spontaneous meeting.

  By twelve-thirty, he checked in at a mid-line motel, one of the chain places, clean and nicely bland. He took a long shower, shaved, cleaned out and changed the bandages on his other wounds. He swallowed another pain pill. He made a point of not thinking, not on any conscious level.

  Not that he was entirely successful. The guilt kept rearing up, the ugly knowledge that Faith was dead because of him.

  The strange symbol carved in Faith’s temple—for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, bothered him more than what the killer had done to the rest of her.

  But he pushed it back down whenever it popped up. Better to let it simmer, let his subconscious work it out. He set the little digital alarm clock on the nightstand for 5:00 pm, not really thinking he would fall asleep but just as a precautionary measure. He stretched out fully clothed on the bed, arms behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. He felt something in his jacket pocket, something crinkly. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—the Church pamphlet from the Welling’s house.

  He crumpled it up into a ball and tossed it across the room. It bounced off the wall and rolled to a stop near the nightstand.

  Fuck it, he thought. He closed his eyes, and within minutes he’d fallen asleep.

  The dreams that played out in his head were scattered fragments. But the Ghost Cat wandered through them, the way a real cat wanders from room to room. In some rooms, the Cat was whole, it was alive and healthy, but in other rooms it would come through the door and pieces of it would be gone, blood would be matted in its fur, bits of bone would be sticking out of it.

  He was a boy again in the dreams, but not himself as a boy. He was someone else. He was a boy who was afraid and elated and shamed all at once. He was a boy holding a kitchen knife, and blood, someone or something else’s blood, was hot on his face.

  The beeping of the alarm clock woke him and he opened his eyes and stared at nothing for a full minute before reaching over to slap the clock quiet.

  Radnovian lived in a refurbished old apartment building on a pleasant little street near the University campus, and by five-thirty Crowe was in his neighborhood. The sky was already going pale but the temperature didn’t seem to be dropping much. This whole winter business was starting to get to him; he couldn’t remember Memphis ever being quite this bleak and cold and gray before. Or maybe it was just him.

  He cruised up and down his street a couple of times, and for a half-hour or so drove around the neighboring streets. He kept his eyes open. There were a lot of young people around, late ‘teens and early twenties, students. Crowe would have expected that, since the campus was only blocks away, but none of them seemed in any particular hurry to get to classes or anywhere else for that matter. Young neo-hippies mostly, with a few jock-types mixed in to soften the flavor. Some of them were on the sidewalk, coming to or from the campus, but most seemed to be just hanging around. They all eyed Crowe with absolutely zero interest as he drove past.

  At around six, he parked in the lot of an apartment building on the next block over from Rad’s place. Through a row of cherry trees that had shed their leaves, he had a good view of the building and its parking lot. He shut off the engine and waited.

  He’d had the cell phone off, but now he flipped it on and saw that Vitower had called three times in the last four hours. Only one message, though: “Crowe, call me as soon as you get this. I haven’t heard from you. That Wills bastard was here, and I need to know what the fuck is going on. Call me post-fucking-haste.”

  Crowe turned the phone back off.

  After twenty minutes, Rad came out of the building, bundled in a thick black winter coat and wearing a ski cap over his balding head. He twirled his car keys on his finger as he trotted over to his car, a deep red Pontiac G6.

  He was alone.

  Crowe watched as he got in the Pontiac, started it up, and pulled out. He kept watching as Rad stopped at the intersection, then took a right onto the main road, heading in the direction of downtown.

  He waited for a full minute, scanning up and down the street for any sign of cops tagging along behind him. If they were there, they were too good to be spotted. Crowe keyed the ignition and headed out.

  His place was just off Front Street, but Crowe pulled up to the curb on Front itself, switched off the car, and got out. Pulling his coat collar tight around his neck, he trotted up to the corner and stopped. His building was half a block up, and he could see it clearly from where he stood.

  Rad’s Pontiac was parked across the street from the building, wedged between a beat-to-shit Cavalier and a dirty white Nissan. He’d be in the building now, maybe knocking impatiently at Crowe’s door or yakking it up with the ever-present Harriston. He was here late last night, Harriston would be saying. Thought I heard him leave again real early in the morning. Haven’t seen him since. And, blowing cigarette smoke from out of his lungs, Say, what’s going on anyway? We don’t want no trouble in this building, y’know?

  Crowe leaned against the lamppost and waited. At five after seven, with the gray finally giving in to night, Rad came out of the building and walked to his car. He got in, started the engine. He sat there for another ten minutes while Crowe’s bones got steadily stiffer and stiffer in the cold.

  Finally his taillights flashed as he put the car in gear, and Crowe hurried back to the Taurus.

  Rad came out onto Front Street just as Crowe started his car. Rad passed him, heading toward Union, and Crowe had to do an illegal U to catch up to him. Rad took a right on Union, heading east again, and Crowe followed, being careful to keep two or three cars between them.

  There was a barbeque joint a few blocks up Union, on the right. Rad pulled into it without using a turn signal. Crowe passed it, turned down the next street, and made a big square through the subs to get back to Union again. A minute and a half had gone by; plenty of time. He pulled into the barbecue’s lot and parked next to Rad’s car, where he had a good view in the rear view mirror of the inside of the restaurant.

  Rad was sitting in a booth by the window. He was giving his order to a pretty young waitress, who smiled at him very professionally. After a few seconds, she left him, and he
stood up and made his way across the restaurant toward the restrooms.

  Crowe grinned and got out of the car and went inside.

  The aroma of cooking pork and tangy barbeque sauce set his mouth watering. He wished he had more time; he could’ve killed a pork barbeque sandwich just then. “Evening, sir,” the hostess said. “How many?”

  “I’m meeting a buddy,” Crowe said. “Is he here yet? Thin guy, sorta balding on top?”

  “Yes, sir, he sure is.” She indicated the booth Rad was using. “I think he just went to the restroom.”

  “Oh, good.” Then, smiling, “Actually, that sounds like a good idea.”

  She smiled dutifully and Crowe winked at her and walked to the men’s room.

  It was small, but clean and well-lit, with two urinals and one stall. The stall door was closed. When he walked in, he heard Rad clear his throat—the universal heads-up sound to indicate someone was present.

  They were alone in there.

  Grinning, Crowe rattled the door to the stall. In a small voice, Rad said, “Hey, oh. Uh. Occupied, friend.”

  Crowe pounded on the door, hard.

  “Hey, what the hell?” Rad said, more nervous than pissed.

  Crowe took a step back and kicked the door open with his heel.

  It banged hollow against the stall, and Rad, sitting on the closed toilet lid, stared up at him blankly. He had a rubber tourniquet around his arm and a needle half in a vein. His kit had fallen to the floor.

  “Crowe?” he said dumbly. “Hey, what…”

  Crowe grabbed him by his neck and yanked him up, slammed him against the wall. He said, “What’s the news, Rad?”

  “What do you… what do you mean?”

  “I mean, how hard are they looking for me? They got you involved yet?”

  The needle fell out of his arm and clattered on the floor. He said, “Listen, man, listen. I have nothing to do with any of that, right? I mean, yeah, they’re looking for you, but that doesn’t involve me. You know that.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone you were meeting me?”

  “No, man, I promise!” he said. “Why would I do that? Jesus, that would be stupid, wouldn’t it? Why would I incriminate myself like that?”

  Crowe loosened his hold on Rad’s neck a little, and Rad said, “Christ, Crowe, what the hell did you get yourself into? They say that woman was butchered. Why? Why would you do something like that?”

  “I didn’t. And Wills knows I didn’t.”

  “Whatever, man, they still have every intention of bringing you down hard. Don’t be surprised if they decide to just shoot you on sight. I mean, that chick was carved up like a turkey, from what I heard.”

  “Her name was Faith,” Crowe said. “Faith…” He wanted to say her last name, but he didn’t know what it was. That bothered him. He gripped Rad’s throat tighter and, choking, Rad clawed at his fingers.

  Crowe said, “You brought what I asked you to bring?”

  Rad nodded, face going red.

  “Where?”

  He said, “C… car… in my…car…”

  Crowe let go of him, and Rad nearly collapsed, clutching his throat and coughing. “Jesus!” he said. “Crowe, for Christ’s sake, you… you don’t have to…”

  “Come on,” Crowe said. “Pick your stuff up off the floor. We’re gonna take a ride in your car.”

  “Where are we going?” Rad said, weaving through traffic on Union. He had his electric razor in one hand but hadn’t turned it on.

  “Just drive.”

  The accordion file on Peter Murke rested in Crowe’s lap, and while Rad drove he opened it up and started leafing through it. It was moderately thick, about one hundred pages, mostly pertaining to the murder of Patricia Welling. Some of it, though, involved the murders he was suspected of, or the murders they knew he’d committed but had nothing solid for. There were about ten pages of information about Murke himself.

  Rad took a left on Fourth Street, his fingers tight on the wheel. He finally put the electric razor down on the seat between them and said, “I should tell you, Crowe, just to be fair… I, uh, just had a hit—part of one, anyway—and I maybe shouldn’t be driving.”

  “You can handle it,” Crowe said, barely looking at him. He was actually thankful Rad had a little dope in him. It made him far less likely to try anything brave.

  He pulled the info about Murke out and slid the rest back into the accordion.

  Peter Murke, 24 years old when he was arrested two years ago. Five foot seven, 168 pounds. Sandy blond hair, brown eyes, no distinguishing marks. Born in Biloxi, Mississippi, to a single mother whose police record included prostitution, possession of cocaine with intent to sell, and child endangerment.

  Murke was already off to a beautiful start.

  By age ten, he was seeing a child psychologist twice a month. Acting out in school, getting in fights, skipping. He was the stereotypical quiet kid, picked on, disliked, teased. At sixteen, he got in a fight with the local bully and wound up breaking both the kid’s arms, knocking out half his teeth, and wouldn’t stop kicking the kid in the head until a group of teachers pulled him off. He was expelled for that. But the bully’s parents didn’t press charges, amazingly enough, and Murke didn’t get sent to juvie.

  Later that same year, Murke approached a policeman on the street and said, “Please lock me up. I’m going to kill someone. I’m going to kill myself.”

  By that time, his mother had taken off with a man, leaving young Murke to fend for himself. Attempts to track his mother down met with failure. They put Murke in front of a psychiatric board, found enough proof that he was a danger to himself and others, and had him committed for a period of three years.

  He did well in the psychiatric hospital, according to the records. He took his pills and he attended group therapy and one-on-one sessions with a shrink, and by the time he was released he seemed a different person entirely. He smiled a great deal. He shook hands with people. He engaged in small talk.

  And, police suspected, he started killing women within a week of his release.

  The first victim that they suspected might have been his work was found just off I-40, midway between Nashville and Chattanooga. A ’91 Ford Explorer was sighted in a ditch, and police found Julie Stanton, age 33, in the backseat, her throat sliced open and several bones broken. They decided that Julie Stanton had picked up a hitchhiker, who somehow got her to pull off on the side of the road, where he beat her nearly to death before cutting her throat.

  Later investigation found that a man fitting Peter Murke’s description had been spotted at a roadside convenience store in the area earlier that day.

  Officially, Julie Stanton’s murder was an open file. But unofficially, it was case closed. State police knew she was Peter Murke’s first victim.

  Crowe, on the other hand, knew that she wasn’t. Peter Murke’s first victim wasn’t even human. Peter Murke’s first victim haunted Crowe on a regular basis.

  Rad said, “Hey. Hey, man.”

  “What?”

  “I need to pull over, man. I’m… I’m getting drowsy.”

  Crowe looked at him and saw that his eyes were half-lidded and dark. His face had gone slack. Goddamn junkie.

  “Fine. Pull into that drug store.”

  Rad did as he was told, finding a place to park outside a Walgreen’s. He kept the engine running, mumbled, “Really tired, man. Feel good, though, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gonna just chill awhile, right?” He leaned his head back on the headrest and looked at Crowe, smiling. “Tell you the truth, Crowe, you should try it someday.”

  Crowe ignored him, put the info on Murke back in the file and pulled out the reports on Patricia Welling, Jezzie Vitower, and three or four other suspected victims.

  The first thing he saw in the coroner’s report on Patricia Welling made him stop cold.

  There were the usual ugly close-up photos of the corpse, accompanied by detailed descriptions of each
and every wound. Each laceration on her body was catalogued and numbered, each bruise given special notation. But the photo that happened to be on top was a close-up of young Patricia’s back, near her left hip.

  Murke had carved a symbol there in the soft flesh. A cross, with descending arms, topped by a bloated-looking heart-shape.

  Crowe flipped quickly to the photos of Jezzie Vitower. Buried within all the other post-mortem photos was one of her abdomen, just below her belly button and slightly to the right. The same symbol. The same carved cross with lowered arms and a heart for a head. Just like on Faith’s temple.

  He’d seen it before. He’d seen it on Garay’s stomach. Faith’s brother.

  And he’d seen it one other place as well.

  The accordion file resting in his lap, he looked out the window at the flashing lights of the Walgreen’s and muttered to himself. He’d very nearly forgotten that Radnovian was even in the car.

  And that was a huge mistake, because Rad chose that exact moment to act like a cop, probably for the first time in years.

  From the corner of his eye, Crowe saw Rad’s left hand dip down below the car seat and come up with a standard police issue .45. He swung it around in Crowe’s direction, aimed, so close the barrel touched Crowe’s jaw, and said, “Don’t move a muscle! Don’t even breathe!”

  Crowe breathed—no real option on that one—but didn’t move. He stared straight ahead.

  “This bullshit ends now,” Rad said. “This pushing me around. I’m a goddamn cop, Crowe, and you act like I’m some kinda punk.”

  Crowe didn’t say anything.

  “You think just because I like to shoot up a little, I’m some kinda push-over, man? I don’t know how to do my job? Well, I got news for you. I’m completely straight right now. You bust into that bathroom stall before I had a chance to dose myself. I reckon I should thank you for that.”

  Crowe shrugged. “Think nothing of it. But what now?”

  Rad tapped the gun barrel against Crowe’s jaw, hard. “What do you think? I’m gonna arrest you.”