Sandy strolled up and licked my face.
“I’ll be fine. Just need a little ice, that’s all.”
20
Tossing and turning on a spongy mattress and squeaky frame, the man yanked the covers off his sweaty body, his flinging hand catching a tray of metal objects that clanged to the floor. The sound pounded his battered brain.
“Dammit!”
A splinter of light shone directly on one of his prized possessions, and the plastic smile soothed his core. Finally, he succumbed to the tug of sleep, his conscious pulled under like it was tied to a five-hundred-pound weight. Clinging to a dreamlike state, he replayed another moment from his youth.
Carrying an army of puppets into his bedroom, the boy’s feet nearly tripped over the footed pajamas, a size too big for his chunky feet. He’d heard his parents walk in the back door moments before, and at a few minutes after midnight, he’d have to fake being asleep in a hurry.
A yelp. The nine-year-old boy stopped arranging his puppets on the dresser. A voice, a shrill from his babysitter. He padded over to his door, pressing his face against the crack. His eyes grew wide at the sight—his dad with his pants down to his knees, his flabby butt cheeks moving back and forth. The boy couldn’t see the babysitter except for her flailing arms.
The boy swallowed, his throat scratchy like a dry toothbrush. He wanted to look away but simply could not.
His mom appeared, her face strained but unflinching. She moved next to his dad, looking straight ahead, her hands clasped in front of her brown suede dress.
The boy sniffed, wrinkled his nose. Something smelled funny.
His dad stopped moving, put his clothes on. The babysitter sat up, tears rolling down her face, and pulled up her pants. His mom took two steps, brought a finger to her mouth, then glanced toward her son’s bedroom. A moment later, the front door opened and shut.
Bickering, then a slap, could be heard in the living room; the boy had to remember to breathe. He heard clomping steps, then his dad appeared in the hallway. His flapping silver-plated belt buckle clinked with each step and shuffle, a finger wiping blood off his lip.
The boy took a careful step back then stopped, stock-still.
A white eye appeared in the crack of the door, looming larger than the moon. The boy nearly swallowed his tongue. Moving backward, he tripped, his eyes riveted to the eye.
The door smacked his bedroom wall, the knob buried inside crumbling sheetrock.
“You got something you wanna say, boy?” Fingers digging deep inside his arms, the boy was lifted off the floor, the height almost as frightening as his dad’s fuming scowl, a smell of booze nearly causing him to choke.
Words pressed at his lips—so much he wanted to say, needed to say—but he couldn’t escape the fear. He only managed a stiff turn of the head.
“I haven’t taught you how to be a real man? If you got something to say, you better fuckin’ say it now. You hear me? Say it!” Barking so loud it hurt his ears, the boy’s dad shook him like a five-pound rag doll, his face nothing more than jagged teeth and wild animal eyes.
Then the shaking stopped, and the boy felt warmth sliding down his legs. Relief. Then he looked down, a surge of emotion swelling with the rise of his dad’s eyes.
“You fuckin’ peed on me, you little maggot!” His dad threw him to the floor, his own knee smacking his nose, blood flowing instantly.
“I thought you’d grow to be a man. Playing with those dolls of yours, you’ll never be a real man.” His father paused, choking on his own spit. “You’re just a perverted little bastard!”
Without warning, a thunderous wallop sounded on the dresser just behind the boy’s head. His dad flapped his loose belt in his hand. “It’s time to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget boy. Ha-ha!”
The belt drew back and the boy closed his eyes, draping an arm over his face, bracing for more pain than he could imagine. Out of nowhere his dresser shook, his puppets falling to the floor next to him. He peeked open an eye; his mom held his dad with both arms, whispering in his ear. His dad’s crazy eyes slowly calmed, though his chest still heaved, saliva spraying between his fangs.
“You want to take his place, fine. This little pussy isn’t worth my sweat.” He marched out of the boy’s room, smacking the two-pound belt buckle against the door, one hand grasping his wife’s dark locks. “Come on, bitch. Let’s get it on.”
The boy sat up, his mom stumbling behind the drunken beast. She brought a finger to her lips, smiled, and mouthed, “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”
A moment later, the boy could hear welts being delivered one grunt at a time. Gritting his teeth, he gripped one of his prized puppets and gradually pulled each limb from its core, then chewed each piece until there was nothing more than tattered remains scattered on the floor.
His mother believed she’d saved at least one soul. But the boy knew it was already too late.
21
Cupping water in my hands, I soaked my face, but that little motion created a twinge of pain in my right shoulder.
After spending a good couple of hours at the Northeast Division with Yosef and Sandy filling out a police report, I didn’t get home until almost four o’clock a.m. Now approaching ten in the morning, I’d slept the last few hours with my shoulder wrapped in ice. One of my high school trainers had taught me years ago that the great healer in medicine was not a magic pill; it was ice.
Looking down at my chest, I noticed scratches and puncture wounds. I thought the devil cat had gotten the best of me, but that just got the night started—a night from hell.
I tried swinging my arm around like a swimmer. I couldn’t make a full rotation without the joint feeling like it was being crushed through a pasta maker. I guessed it was more of a deep bruise than a torn tendon or rotator cuff. I could see a shade of dark purple starting to form. I’d stretch some later and continue with the ice regimen. I took a step, then glanced back at the mirror. I would have chuckled if I didn’t look so pathetic. Red marks circled my neck, and every time I swallowed, I could feel a lump, a reminder of the chain crushing my airwaves. Touching my left cheek, I had a nice bump to go along with the crimson color.
Crimson and cream. The colors of the archenemy across the Red River—Oklahoma University. Today was the annual Texas-OU showdown at the Cotton Bowl. I’d been able to put aside any bitterness I had about my dismissal from the Longhorns football team. I was young, a little immature, yet still felt justified for what I’d done to get kicked off the team.
Water off a duck’s back, Uncle Charlie would say.
“Wake up, lazy asshole, asshole, asshole.”
Big Al.
Ambling into the kitchen, I pulled open a cabinet and scooped out his food. I fed him, changed his newspaper, and tossed it in the trash. The door to my trash can cabinet never closed properly. I needed to get that fixed…then I realized that task landed at about ninety-three on my list of priorities.
Prying open my laptop, I clicked the power button for it to boot up, then I fixed my coffee. While I waited for both to percolate, I glanced around my place. A wooden support beam split the living room, and exposed metal ductwork lined the high ceiling, giving it a bit of a loft feel. I guess that some would say I was crazy for going out on my own, starting a business when I had a monthly mortgage to pay.
But most of the time I also had a crazy sense of confidence. I’d learned that while ignorance might be bliss, it can allow you the opportunity to dive into something and not worry too much about screwing up. Unsure if I would ever follow any books written on how to start up a PI business, I still felt confident I could make this work.
The purchase of my condo at just under eight hundred square feet had been a huge source of pride. The entire complex was under renovation when I stumbled upon this foreclosure. I paid fifty cents on the dollar and laughed my way through the purchase process, wondering if anyone would ever pinch me and say I couldn’t do it.
No one said a word. Perhaps
, it was the timing. The economy had been in the crapper, and sellers were begging for offers.
Sipping hot coffee while munching on a power bar, I opened a browser and began searching for racially charged websites and chat rooms. It had hit me last night. The way both of the bombings were carried out, whether they were connected or not, was all very public. Typically, those types of perps felt compelled to share their triumphs with others of similar beliefs. It was how the world worked, at least on the sick side of the ledger.
I visited two sites and pretty quickly felt my appetite dissipate. Even without mentioning the bombings, the number of nasty, racist comments was disturbing. One of them read:
“The great country has been polluted by non-Americans for years. Whether it’s by a bomb or epidemic, God has a way to cleanse the river. Let it be written. Let it be done.”
Was he quoting the epic movie Momma made me watch every Easter as a kid, The Ten Commandments? I think that quote was made by a pharaoh from Egypt. I glanced at the topic title of this chat room: Go Home Commies. I guess that summed it up.
Scanning a few more comments, a few sane folks tried to step in front of the runaway, racist eighteen-wheeler, but they were mauled and discarded like yesterday’s trash. Interestingly, no one pointed out the second bombing had targeted one of the wealthiest Anglo families in the state, the Cromwells. I guess I should use the word “allegedly,” since that was one of my theories. I snatched my phone off the counter and sent myself a text:
Find bride and question motives 4 Ashton killing
Stretching out my shoulder socket every few minutes, I guzzled down another two cups of coffee as I perused three more sites, the jolt of caffeine acting as a personal fuel enhancer. While I’d read through more ignorant comments in thirty minutes than the previous thirty-one years of my life, I’d yet to spot a single person or group take responsibility.
I reminded myself how many websites existed in the virtual world. A billion, two billion?
Perhaps I’d gone about this all wrong. Though the nature of the bombings could be characterized as deliberately hateful, they were essentially giving society the middle finger. My body, shoulder included, tensed up, thinking this person or group could be blending in with the world around us. Hiding in plain sight.
I wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for them or wish they’d all take a one-way scientific trip to Mars. The Titanic wouldn’t be large enough to hold this clan.
I rubbed my face, then winced a bit when I brushed the contusion on my cheekbone. Snippets of data pinged my brain, and I wondered how I could narrow down the list of possible suspects. Two over-arching questions nibbled at me and needed to be answered before I could make any substantive progress. Was the second bombing at the Old Red Courthouse a revenge of the first, where my little girl could have been—? I could hardly piece together the words without a gush of emotion. I slurped another gulp of lukewarm coffee and asked the second question out loud: “Are we talking about a group of people with similar beliefs and values, or could this have somehow been pulled off by a lone nut job?”
“Kick him in the nuts. Kick him in the nuts. Woo-hoo.” Big Al had nothing if not timing.
Determined to pump blood through my brain the old-fashioned way to hopefully elicit ideas on my next steps in the bombing case, I sat on the floor, stretched a few leg muscles, and counted out my sit-ups. I didn’t have to overcome much pain on this exercise, although two of my claw marks opened up, dots of glossy-red shining off my abs.
If I was in an unlit closet, would I glow in the dark?
I chuckled at myself, glad to see I still had a wry sense of humor. Come to think of it, a few of the abrasions could have been attributed to fangs, a vampire maybe? Perhaps I could find a mate for Big Al and call her Bella. Nah. I’d rather invite the devil cat over for dinner than hear Big Al and any living creature going at it every night.
Shuddering from the thought, I found the zone again and propped my feet on the sofa, extending my arms to the floor. Did I really want to test my shoulder this soon? Pawing my hands on the blue and red woven rug, I forced out a breath. Down…and one. Keeping my arms locked, I assessed the pain level. I surmised it was at a six or seven, then wondered which way the pain needle would move. I could just stop at one and rest it another twenty-four hours?
That wasn’t me. Down…and two. Down…and three. My pace picked up and decided to strive for twenty. Just as I pushed up at fifteen, veins popping from each shoulder and forearm, my phone rattled and buzzed across the coffee table.
Whoever it was could wait.
I grunted out five more push-ups, then fell to my knees, oxygen intake lifting my chest much more than usual.
It was a text from Felix:
Trace evidence found at both scenes; fbi to confirm if same person. Out.
Gripping the phone, I pumped my arm, hoping the evidence would quickly bring an end to this nightmare. I texted back to Felix:
Appreciate the info. Eager for results. Later.
I clicked the TV remote and muted the sound, curious if CNN had a twenty-four-hour news vigil set up in downtown Dallas. Coming out of commercial, a breaking news bulletin splashed across the screen. I turned up the volume.
“Sources have told CNN that officials now believe they have relevant evidence in custody from both bombing scenes, and this evidence could, emphasis on could, help them tie the crime scenes together.”
Sounded like someone was hedging his bets, but it’s still not the kind of press any city wanted. People, and authorities, want results, not hyperbole.
I bit the inside of my cheek, temporarily quieting a murmur of shoulder pain, and brought myself back to reality. On the surface, Felix’s news about the CSI team finding trace evidence that could connect both bombings and help us—the local and federal authorities—identify and arrest the perps was music to my ears. But I’d seen this act before. Evidence is found, leaked to the press even, but nothing comes of it for a myriad of reasons: evidence, human or otherwise, wasn’t clean enough to provide pertinent data; the volume of evidence collected was inadequate to provide a good enough sample; the evidence identified was not associated to the criminal act, but was instead found to be attributed to other people or items at the crime scene.
If the FBI had purposely leaked that information to the media, it was playing a dangerous game. Its credibility was on the line with the victim’s families, the public in general, even the perps.
I for one couldn’t rely on this trail to lead us to the doorstep of the killers. I still had a couple of other ideas in my back pocket.
Stripping off my remaining clothes as I walked across the living room, I tossed my sweats on top of Big Al’s cage.
“Yummy, yummy, yummy,” he squawked for the millionth time.
I took a hot shower and wondered if Big Al was better suited to live with the Double Ds.
22
Cannons exploded, and I thought I could feel the echo in my gut. While the thunderous boom had gone off two miles away at the Cotton Bowl, I couldn’t help but recall the bomb blasts over the last week. I’d been front and center for both, knowing that in a nanosecond, lives had been lost, families shredded. And that doesn’t account for the disbelief and terror of watching it again and again on TV, courtesy of our overzealous press corp.
Thankful that the cannon sounds only signaled another Texas touchdown, putting the Longhorns up 14-3 in the second quarter, I clinked longnecks with my old college buddy, Henry.
“Let’s send the Boomer Sooner crowd back across the Red River, crying in their melted crimson and cream painted faces.” I raised my beer and took a long swig, then shoveled in some salty nuts out of a glass bowl at The Jewel. The place was nearly packed on an early Saturday afternoon, both sides in the seventy plus year rivalry equally represented.
I felt a snap and brush of air against my back. Quickly reaching behind me, I caught nothing, but noticed One Nut dashing toward a group of hell-raisers chanting something abou
t nachos and beer. Justin was in hog heaven, although he never chose sides in this rivalry—it was bad for business.
“They say the ratio of girls to guys at OU is much higher, you know,” Henry added above the cheers and boos of an OU first down.
“You’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to provide quantifiable proof that Texas women are hotter than any girls in the country. I’m sure there’s been some type of unscientific poll conducted.”
“I should have clarified,” he said. “Girls really mean cows, heifers. OU has the market on heifers. UT grads, we swing bullish balls like…Bevo.”
We both released a loud, obnoxious laugh as TV cameras focused on the Texas Longhorn mascot grazing on wheat, while about eight handlers gripped ropes attached to his neck and prayed he didn’t get annoyed at the flies zipping around his head.
Using a rag to clean up behind the grown-up boys, including Henry and myself, Alisa scooted down the bar and nodded.
“You boys got enough to drink?”
“Well—” Henry started to say.
“I just heard your last comments. I think I know the answer.” Alisa winked and kept moving.
Henry leaned in closer. “Has Alisa, you know, ever found anyone to settle down with?”
Grinning more than I should have, I recalled my first interaction with Alisa, a voluptuous blonde who earned her graduate degree in partying down in Austin, not at the university, but all around the college town.
Five years my senior, she’d visited some friends when I attended the University of Texas. My group ran into her group at a club, and about ten drinks later, we were sharing our life stories while eating burgers at the legendary late-night joint, Players.
She’d dropped out of TCU only twelve hours shy of graduating, to marry her assistant soccer coach. The two lovebirds had a spontaneous destination wedding in Las Vegas, full of decadence and excess.
The morning after their wedding, which featured topless showgirls and male exotic dancers, Alisa found her new husband in the lobby having a drink with one of the showgirls. Apparently, he’d stayed up all night drinking and gambling with his new friend, celebrating his recent marriage in a very odd manner.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 14
