The Black Chronicle
Page 8
“Hello” Jeremy said.
“I read your article” the convict said with a bit of a lisp due to the wound.
Fuck. He knew he would get his hands on it sooner or later. He was hoping for later. After the Mister copy-cat case became headline news Jeremy was approached by a major publisher interesting in him writing a book about the case. The money was right and it couldn't hurt his career so he signed on the dotted line. The article Matherport was referring to was a small piece he had written for Rolling Stone to promote the book.
“What happened to your lip?” Jeremy asked trying to side step the topic.
“Are you my friend Jeremy?”
He was not in the mood for this shit today.
“I don’t think we can call our relationship a friendship, no.”
“You made me think you were my friend.”
Victor began to chew at his lip again, the blood slowly tainted the gauze red.
“Because I was kind to you?”
“Yes.”
“I was kind to you because I wanted to help you. I still want to help you.”
“All you wanted was my secrets.”
“Where the bodies were, you mean?”
“You think you're so fucking clever. You think you understand me? You don't understand shit. You didn't get all my secrets little man.”
The gauze on his lip had became loose, a fleck of blood landed on the table.
“All I wanted to do was try and make things right. As right as they could be made again. Your 'secrets' just happened to be what I needed to do that. You don't think the families of those people deserved a little closure?”
Victor chomped at his lip like it was a piece of bubble gum until it was completely exposed again.
“You made me think you were my friend.”
Maybe it was the week he had, or maybe he had just had his fill of this little game but Jeremy just couldn't conjure any more tact.
“What basis would someone like you and someone like me ever have for a friendship?”
“So? What? You’re just going to write a book about me now, and what? Make a million dollars?”
“A million dollars?” Jeremy scoffed. “I wish.”
In a flash Matherport was reaching across the table, his big heavy hands crushing Jeremy's wrists, pulling him across the table towards him, strangling Jeremy before the guards even noticed. They scrambled to get the door open. Realizing he wouldn't have enough time to kill him by asphyxiation Matherport bent down and sunk his teeth into Jeremy's throat. He tried his best to dig deep enough to tear a sufficient chunk away but Jeremy did a good job holding Matherport's head in place so he was not able to wrench away a bite. Then the guards were in the room, screaming at him and beating him with batons until he went limp and released his prey.
Jeremy fell to the floor and rolled away to safety, clutching at his throat to stop the bleeding. He realized he was going to be okay, the wound was not fatal and then stood up and watched as the guards beat Victor to a bloody pulp, wishing he could join in.
Just another day at the office.
CHAPTER 12
Simon Codwell was born to his teenage parents Jacob Codwell and Becky Griffith on a hot Saturday afternoon in the month of August, nineteen sixty.
After leaving Clementine Tennessee they had driven clear across five states before running out of gas and money in Arizona. Jacob was lucky to find work at a small farm for a couple weeks which offered as part of his pay room and board for Becky and himself. With the money he made there they pressed on for sunny California, which in the end didn't really match up with their expectations, except for maybe the 'sunny', part but it was a good of a place as any to stay put and grow some roots. Little did they know that would entail a child so soon.
For twelve hours Becky was in labour while Jacob paced nervously in the waiting room, sneaking sips here and there of whisky from a metal flask in his jacket pocket until a pretty young nurse came and retrieved him.
“You can come in now Mr. Codwell.”
When he entered the room his son was in Becky's little arms.
“Hey baby,” She said, exhausted but glowing with pride. “Come say hello.”
Nine months was nowhere near enough time for him to prepare himself for that moment. He thought it would be beautiful and joyous but as he slowly walked towards his newborn son the only emotion he felt was fear. He was so small, so fragile and it was up to him to make sure that he was safe. That he was fed, and clothed and healthy. How was he going to raise a child? He was still a boy himself.
“Say hello to your daddy Simon,” she whispered to the pink little guy who was crying softly against her breast.
“Are you okay?” Jacob asked, stroking her hair and kissing her on the forehead.
“Yeah, I'm just fine. We did it Jacob. We have a baby boy.”
It was just too much emotion. Jacob retrieved the flask from his pocket and took a long sip. Becky knitted her brows.
“My back is sore Becky. It helps with the pain.”
“I didn't say nothin'.”
“I'm going to have to get back to the mill soon,” he said cupping Simon's little head in his hand, marvelling at the fact that he had created a person. Made a human, and there he was, a little human being that didn't even exist yesterday.
“You have to go so soon?”
“No, not yet. I can stay for a bit. But I can't miss another shift or I might lose my place. You know how it is there. There's always someone chomping at the bit for your spot on the crew.”
The lumber mill had been Jacob's place of employment since they got to California, though he hated it and often complained that it was going to ’put him in an early grave’. Becky also had her fair share of complaints about it. The shifts were long and she was always alone and when he was home he was so exhausted and worn out that all he wanted to do was sleep and watch the television and drink. She didn't blame him for drinking so much because she couldn't even imagine the kind of pressure he was under, being only a kid still really and having to work that horrible job everyday just to put food on the table. But she couldn't deny it was starting to make him just a little testy and she couldn't even remember the last time he hadn't come to bed stumbling drunk.
But he was a good guy. Sure he started to become a little grumpy. And sure their lives didn't turn into the kind of wild romance she expected it to but he always made sure that she had whatever she needed.
After she was discharged from the hospital with their baby he continued to provide for them like she knew he would. He kept that job at the mill for years, even though it destroyed his back. The only complaint she had, at first, was how distant Jacob seemed to be with his son. It was as if he never knew what to say or how to act around him.
The boy grew like a weed and in what seemed like a blink of an eye he was already five, walking and talking, with his own personality and thoughts and opinions. He was a sweet boy who never cried and never complained or fussed and perhaps what unsettled Jacob about his boy, was that he was too quiet. Much too Quiet. Little Simon was always in his own head and spoke only when necessary. Not that the boy was dull. When he did speak it was succinct and meaningful and never did he ask a silly question or so much as waste a single world. He was intelligent, that much was clear almost right away, but was he happy?
When he was six and lost his first baby tooth Becky wrapped it in a tiny cloth for him and instructed him to place it under his pillow.
“Why?” he asked, his tiny brows pushed together at the center of his serious little face.
“So the tooth fairy will come,” she explained matter of factly, tucking him in under the sheets. “When you loose a tooth, you place it in a cloth and tuck it under your pillow and while you're sleeping the tooth fairy will come and take it and replace it with a treat for you.”
Simon blinked at the tooth then at his mother and lowered his voice as if to be delicate with her. “Mama, that's not true. There's no such thing.”
Becky was so stunned that she simply switched off his light and quietly turned to leave. Simon must have sensed that her feelings were bruised.
“Mama,” he said before she closed the door.
“Yes baby?”
“You can still put a treat under my pillow if you like.”
And that was the type of child he was. Always thinking of others. Empathetic and serious and kind but never a boy. Never a boy. Even when she took him to the playground to play with the other kids he would just stand off to the side with the adults or by himself as if he thought the children's games were just silly.
She never knew what he was thinking so Becky came up with the great idea of buying him a journal as a means for him to express himself, and perhaps also a means for her to know what was going on inside her son's head. Thank goodness it worked. Though his printing was barely decipherable still as he had just learned to print the alphabet, he seemed to know what he was writing. He would spend hours scribbling upside down and backwards letters and little pictures that would require his explanation to make any sense of. Jacob seemed to find it very odd but Becky was just relieved he had a means of communicating.
CHAPTER 13
“Hello Mary,” the voice on the other end of the phone greeted. “I hope I didn't wake you?”
“Who is this?”
“You know who.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to see the truth.”
“What are you talking about? What truth? Why are you doing this to us?”
“The truth that will set you free. You will thank me for it, in the end.”
“Is Cindy alive?”
“Oh, she is very much alive. She wouldn't be much use -or fun- if she wasn't… Oh, my pretty girl. Why are you crying?”
“Why am I crying? She's me niece! Please! Please, just let her go.”
“I can't let her go. Not yet. She's the closest thing I have to you. Oh the fun we have. She is a very, very spirited young lady, your niece Cindy. But let's not talk about her. Let's talk about us. As I'm sure you've guessed, the first time I saw you was in one of your movies. The Devil's Mistress. I remember seeing you in that sexy little red lace and wanting to fucking devour you. You were just so beautiful. I bought the DVD and masturbated constantly to it all weekend. I mean I rubbed myself raw. Oh but I couldn't stop. And this isn't something that happens a lot. You no-men rarely arouse me so strongly. So I thought maybe there was a reason. So I looked you up and lo and behold. We lived in the same state, in the same city. I read about your magazine and found out where your office was. Some days I would watch you from the car, follow you home. Other times I would get of the car and follow you around the city... Hello? Mary are you still there?”
“Yes...”
“Oh good. The closest I have ever been to you was in a line at the grocery story. I was right behind you, not one foot away. I was close enough to feel the heat coming off that unbelievable body of yours. I sniffed at your hair and tried to imagine the contours of your vagina underneath the Plain Jane white cotton skirt you were wearing. You were looking at some trashy gossip rag at the checkout. Even after I followed you home that day and you went upstairs I could still smell your perfume on my clothes. It was driving me wild and I knew it was no coincidence I found you. I realized that you were a part of me. A part I had sorely neglected for so long. But not anymore. My work is nearly done. And before it is, we will be together, as we were meant to be all along. I promise you.”
That phone call from Mister had taken place late on a Tuesday night and two days later she was still not able to sleep. He knew who she was, and where she lived and Mary wanted nothing more than to call the cops and go into witness protection or whatever but couldn't bear to imagine what would happen to Cindy if Mister found out.
She had discovered an article online written by a Dr. Jeremy Foster, who was a forensic psychologist and a former FBI agent. When the Mister copy-cat was caught they asked him to get inside the guys head and get him to trust him so he would reveal the location of bodies that were still missing. And this Foster guy, being some sort of savant with psychopaths, actually pulled it off. He even wrote a book about it. If she couldn’t risk going to the police, this guy was probably the next best thing. After doing a little research, Mary discovered he had a private practice downtown so she called to make an appointment to see him but he was booked solid straight through to next month.
“I know Dr. Foster is very busy. Actually, my very good friend is one of his clients,” she lied. “She has been seeing him for years. I'd rather not name her if that's all the same. She has just gone on and one about how good he is, and I really need to talk with someone. Is there anyway I can get in just for a half an hour. It's very, very urgent. I can pay his full rate in cash of course.”
She was surprised that it actually worked. Now here she was trying to get ready. The reflection in the mirror had been staring at her tired face for fifteen minutes with an unsettling mixture of grief and outright loathing.
She picked up the eyebrow crimper, placed it against her eyeball and squeezed. Then the other. Only the perfect amount of cover-up would ‘cover up’ the deep dark bags under her eyes without making her look like a powdered doughnut. She was tempted to just forgo her daily application of war paint altogether. Wouldn’t the appearance of her tired and sullen face speak more clearly of her grief than giving enough of a fuck to appear presentable would? But she had already started, and if she half assed it or tried to over compensate for how she was feeling she would end up looking like one of those insecure chicks who, ironically made their insecurity painfully obvious by smearing on more makeup than a circus clown. All she wanted was to be taken seriously because what she would be asking of Dr. Foster would be very, very easy to say no to.
She decided on a charcoal business suit and tied her hair in a bun. This was, she figured, what she would look like if she had become a lawyer or an executive, or pretty much anything half way more respectable then what she was. It was a good look she decided, detached as though she and the woman in the mirror were two different people.
The intercom buzzed and her stomach plummeted into her sensible heels. Visitors weren't permitted to buzz up directly. There was a concierge that fielded all guests to the building, which she was more than a little thankful for, but still she wasn't expecting anybody.
Maybe it was him.
Mr. Mister is here to see you Mrs. Stien. Should I send him up?
Yes of course. Please be a dear and help him up with the chainsaw. Don't forget to validate his parking.
“Yes?” She whispered into the speaker.
“Mrs. Stien. Erin Tucker, here to see you.”
Well, it was really just a matter of time.
“Okay. Send her up.” Mary said and finished mascaraing her eyes.
Two minutes later, Erin was at the door, eyes full of concern and worry, an offering of
Starbucks coffee and Cranberry Bliss bars in her hands.
“Hey, sorry for coming over unannounced.”
“Come in, come in” Mary said, waving her inside and locking the door behind them.
Her appointment was in an hour which meant she had to rush out the door right that second if she was going to make it, which was clearly not going to happen now.
“Listen, Erin,” Mary led them into the living room and thanklessly plucked one of the coffees from her hands. “I know I haven't been in, in a couple days. And I know the deadline for locking October's pages is coming. But I wouldn't have left you to run the office if I didn't think you could handle it.”
“No, no. I can handle it.” Erin insisted without a trace of conviction in her squeaky voice. She took a long sip of coffee, then another and another. “It's just that. October is our biggest issue, and I still need confirmation on the cover, and the cover story, and we're running out of time, and I hav
en't even got the short story picks from you and -”
“Erin, Erin.” Mary said, halting her little bite-size assistant-meltdown. “I'm just going through some stuff right now okay. The mag will be fine. We'll figure it out. We have plenty of time.”
Erin took a deep breath and a long sip. Breath, breath, sip, sip. Her brown eyes, which always seemed cartoonishly big due to her fake lashes and heavy black eye-liner, swivelled and darted like drunken fish in tiny little fish bowels. Mary waited, pretend-calm, while she collected herself and relaxed a little.
Finally once Erin settled, she noticed the way Mary was dressed.
“Oh my God. Did somebody die?” She gasped taking a seat on the edge of the sofa.
“What? No!” Mary said looking down at her outfit. “Nobody died. Just some personal stuff okay. And this suit is charcoal not black.”
It took Mary nearly fifteen minutes to convince Erin everything was going to be okay and make her leave. Luckily traffic was light, or as light as it gets. She reached the low rise office building on Fornsworth and Pine only five minutes late.
She flipped down the sun visor to check her face in the mirror before she went up. It had been ten years since she had smoked but promised the downtrodden woman staring at her from the rectangular block of glass that she would buy her a pack as soon as this meeting was over.
The receptionist was a middle aged woman with large oversized glasses and an over sized helping of kindness in her eyes. Eyes so kind, they crossed over into sympathy.
“Hi. Um. I’m Mary Stien. I have a twelve thirty appointment.”
“Yes. Hello Mary. Please have a seat. I’ll let him know you are here.”
Two minutes passed and a tall handsome man in a suit a little too sharp for a shrink opened the door and smiled warmly at her.
***
“Hello. Miss Stien?” Jeremy asked smoothing out his tie.
“Yes. Hello,” she said clearly trying to sound confident but not quite getting there.