He brought a hiking backpack with him. It was the kind that was longer than a person’s torso and twice as heavy. Inside he had jammed a small and portable shovel, several pieces of firewood, some firestarter, and a box of matches.
First, he dug a hole as far as he could through the soft soil, until the ground underneath was too hard to dig through due to the drought. Then, when the hole was sufficient, he placed the logs campfire-style and doused the entire thing with lighter fluid. He put on a layer of dry leaves, then doused those as well. He lit it and watched it spread with ease from the layer of leaves to the wood. After the fire was good and large enough, he shoveled Jamie’s remains onto the fire, slowly enough to not put the fire out. And when all of him was completely spread across the fire, he doused the body in the remaining portion of lighter fluid and watched as it burned.
The smelled of burning flesh and hotly singed hair from head to toe filled the air nearest Alexander. He took it in with deep breaths, exhaling it again calmly. How relaxing. How peaceful it all was.
It burned for a decent amount of time, but not nearly long enough to fully cremate the body. Alexander knew that would be the case going into it; cremating was never the intent, or even a possible ambition. He just liked to watch it burn. He liked the sight of it … the smell of it. After the fire was put out, he shoveled the mound of dirt back on top and packed the dirt in tightly.
The hole was deep enough that rain would not wash the body up. And, in precaution, Alexander had been growing a baby tree in a potted plant. When it had sprouted, giving life to a new tree, he knew the time was right for this adventure. In the tightly-packed soil, he planted the tree and smoothed and blended the dirt all around it.
It looked completely organic and natural, as if an acorn had fallen and naturally sprouted by itself, and the miracle of nature worked as it does.
There was something poetic about it all. He’s giving life to something in the same place he had taken life from another. From death sprouts new life, or something like that. A good excuse for his behavior, perhaps. Or perhaps it was rationalization of the situation, to make it seem less cruel and inhumane.
But mostly, it was because no one would think to dig under a tree for a body. Jamie would never be found. His parents were completely unaware of who he was with; they didn’t keep tabs on him, and he was pretty much free to do whatever. For the coming days and weeks, what was left of his body (post chop-and-burn) would decay. It would rot and decompose into worm food, and they would eventually suck every bit of meat and flesh from his bones, exposing only the remains of what was once a human. And those remains would forever rest under this tree as it grew. Eventually, its roots would cast down, growing larger and thicker, piercing through and moving around his bones, until he was all but a forgotten memory.
Something about decay intrigued Alexander. Decay was peaceful.
FIVE
Jesus Christ, please God, no. Jesus Christ, no! No, Goddammit! No! No!
Marco was screaming inside his own head, while he physically was silent. He stood perfectly still; no muscle dared quiver. But the screaming inside his own head continued; it built up and got louder and louder until it overtook him. He was only screaming inside his own head, until he wasn’t anymore.
Everything was slow-motion. The entryway to Gene’s home that was once so spectacular now only remained as a crime scene. The world around him spun. Around and around it went. Spinning, spinning, spinning.
He collapsed to his knees in the pool of clotted blood, revitalizing it and allowing it to soak up onto his pant legs. He screamed for real this time, but he couldn’t hear himself. Everything was silent. The home was silent; the neighborhood was silent; Gene’s lifeless corpse was silent, and his screams were utterly and completely silent.
Anyone but Gene. Why Gene?
Marco couldn’t speak. He wanted to beg Gene to come back, and he wanted to beg God for a second chance at his life. But no words broke the barrier between his brain and his mouth, and dared not cross the threshold of his lips. Nothing escaped; nothing even tried. Gene was dead and that’s all there was to it.
Gene, the saint. Gene, the decorated police detective that had honorably served the city Dallas for most of his adult life. Gene, the man two weeks from retirement and two weeks from age sixty-five. Gene, the man who wanted nothing in the world more than he wanted happiness for his daughter. Gene, the man prepared to sell his long-time home to be closer to her, to support her as he always had. Gene, the cop, the widower, the loving and supportive father, the mentor, the colleague, and the best friend.
Marco’s eyes shot around everywhere, darting back and forth, scanning the place as fast as he’d ever scanned anything. He was just looking for something, for anything.
This wasn’t a break-in. This wasn’t a burglary.
Nothing had been taken from his home. Gene was not robbed of anything material, but he was robbed as his chance at a graceful retirement and blissful life afterward.
Then, as painful as it was, Marco examined the body.
Staving off bitter, heavy tears, Marco looked him in the eyes. And despite how scared Gene must have been in his final moment, he looked at peace. He did not look happy, nor did he look sad; he looked at peace. It brought Marco some (although very little) comfort knowing that Gene’s last moments were ones of acceptance. He didn’t look fearful.
There was only one bullet hole on the body. It was on his right breast, opposite the heart. It pierced right through the lung, and he probably suffocated before he bled out completely. Maybe that’s why he looked so at peace. Marco had heard somewhere that when someone drowns, their final seconds are very pleasant. Calm and relaxing.
Then Marco noticed something under Gene’s robe. It was a small card pinned to his chest with a safety pin that read: Courtesy of.
That’s all? Courtesy of?
Marco decided he better not touch it until the rest of homicide and forensics show up. Today would be a dark day for Dallas Homicide but, as Marco had decided, Alexander Hart would soon have a darker day in Hell.
Then, without any prior warning from his body, Marco practically sprinted back out of the front door and into the neatly-trimmed front lawn. There he dropped to his knees, put both hands on the back of his head, interlocking his fingers, and drove his head into the grass, burying it there for a moment. He vomited before an aggressive stream of tears - the product of a sorrow unknown to him, something he had never felt before - burst out. It was a kind of unbridled release, and he had no hopes of getting it under control until it had run its course.
There he wept until his tear ducts ran dry. Again, everything was silent.
I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.
---
Marco was on his knees staring towards the street in shock, disbelief, and anger. Perhaps the weight of it all is what got to him. The fact that his dear friend and colleague had been murdered in the comfort of his own home.
“Amazing Grace… how sweet the sound… that saved a wretch… like me…”
Marco tenderly sang the tune that had been comforting to him as a child. His beliefs in God varied over the years; some years his faith was strong, and some years he had little to no belief in a higher power at all. But through it all, certain tunes brought him comfort, and this was one of them.
“I once was lost… but now I’m found… was blind, but now… I see…”
As he lost touch with his surroundings, purely only focusing on the street directly in front of him and the image that still burned in his mind, he comforted himself. Only he could bring himself comfort. His only friend was now dead, banished from the Earth too soon.
“‘Twas Grace that taught… my heart to fear… and Grace my fears… relieved…”
His world was entirely blurred by the tears that lingered in his eyes, but through the blur, red and blue flashes appeared. They were coming from several sources, and they came all at once. Seconds (which felt like minutes) later, Marco was s
urrounded by what seemed like the entire station. Jeff, Sergeant, Lieutenant, and even Captain Cole were all in attendance, along with all four of the forensics experts. Additionally, there was one patrol car present, plus every available Homicide officer. In mere seconds, the entire front yard and porch were filled with people in some way or another associated with the police force. They’ve either come to investigate, pay their respects, or both.
It sounded like he was under water. Captain Cole tried to get his attention, yelling his name mere inches from his head, and snapping in front of his eyes, but he was unable to break the spell. The stubborn, heavy tears finally fell from his eyes, dispelling the cloud.
“Yeah… What, Captain?” Marco said it half-heartedly, his eyes still bulging, focused forward, not fixated on anything in particular. He was in a trance.
“Marco. What the hell happened? Are you okay? You said Gene is dead, but what the hell is going on?”
In a trance still, Marco responded with: “Oh, yeah. I came to check on him, ‘cause he was late and all. I got here and the door was cracked open. Walked in and found him that way.”
Marco was expressionless. The lights were on but nobody was home. He was on autopilot, seemingly, as in he could answer direct questions, and he could see everything, but very little was being processed. He was there, but he wasn’t complete. The Captain walked away, not saying anything further, allowing Marco to sit for a moment longer.
Inside the house, forensics examined the scene while Jeff perused the rest of the home with Sergeant Davis. Sergeant Davis was sort of like another member of the detective staff, but with more responsibility. He, for example, filled the schedule and gave direct delegations to the detectives. He did, however, visit most every crime scene that he was available for, and was actively involved with each and every case. Anything that was above his paygrade was passed up directly to Captain Cole. The Lieutenant didn’t have an eye for detective work, so he worked directly with the officers of Homicide, and closely assisted them in their duties while providing administrative support.
Captain Cole was looming over the body in heartbreak. It was one thing when an officer was killed on duty, but when one was hunted down and targeted, that was different. And he was indeed hunted. There’s no doubt about it anymore; this was no coincidence. Alexander Hart was the man responsible for his death and for Terry’s death. Now it was just a matter of finding him.
“What can you tell me, guys?” Captain Cole directed the question to the Lab Geeks that examined the body more closely.
Lab Geek 1 was the first to speak up, as he often was. “Well, not much. There’s a .357 revolver here at the base of the stairs; it’s likely the victim’s personal-”
“His name was Gene. Respect.”
“I’m sorry… Anyway, it’s likely Gene’s personal weapon. From what it looks like, he was probably in bed for the night and came downstairs. Maybe he heard something so he grabbed his gun, and when he reached the bottom of the steps, the shooter had point-blank range. There’s one entry wound to his right breast, piercing the lung. He likely suffocated before bleeding out. However, the shot through his lung filled it with blood, and pumped blood up through his trachea and filled his mouth. Since he’s on his back, it’s also possible that the blood rushed in too quickly and he sort of drowned. The M.E. can give you the exact cause of death. But either way, it’s due to a single gunshot wound.”
Lab Geek 2 chimed in. “Also, based on the way the blood pooled heavily in this spot,” he said, pointing to a pool of blood separate from the rest, “he likely fell to his chest first and, for whatever reason he rolled onto his back. Either that or his was forced there. And then he probably passed just a few seconds later, here where he lies.”
Lab Geek 2 examined the spatter on the wall next to the staircase, then moved to a spot next to the front door. He aligned himself with the spatter, and continued his analysis: “The shooter was likely standing right here and was… maybe two inches shorter than I am, assuming he held the gun out properly, based on the height of the spatter on the wall.”
“Thank you,” Captain said, “and how tall are you?”
“I am six feet, one inch. Shooter was likely five-eleven or on the short side of six feet.”
“Thanks again. Is there an exit wound? If so, make sure you collect the bullet and process it against one of the ones at the Terry Edmund crime scene. Run it for a match. I think the killings are related.”
Lab Geek 1 took the conversation back. “That would make sense. His decomposition is in the same stage of Edmund. He’s just a little fresher than Edmund was, so the time of death was probably around ten to midnight.” He nodded in confirmation again to lock in his estimate.
“Okay, perfect.”
Just as Captain Cole turned to leave the room and head back out to fresher air, Lab Geek 2 halted him.
“Hey, wait up,” he said. “What’s this?” He was addressing something underneath Gene’s robe. It was tucked in discreetly, but just noticeable enough to catch his attention. Lab Geek 2 peeled back the edge of Gene’s robe to expose it. It was a small card pinned to Gene’s chest, and it read: Courtesy of.
“Courtesy of? What does that mean?” The Captain reached to unpin it, but one of the Lab Geeks stopped him first. He needed his picture for evidence, and once he was done, Captain Cole was allowed to touch it. He carefully extracted the needle of the safety pin and removed the card from its grasp. He looked at it more closely, then turned it over. What he saw shocked him, but did not surprise him.
The other end of it was a business card. Out loud, he read it to the other men.
“Alexander Hart. Sr. Partner & Co-Founder, Edmund & Hart Financial Services, Inc. It’s his business card. Motherfucker. He’s toying with us.” Captain Cole handed the card to one of the Geeks and walked out in a huff, leaving the rest of the room’s occupants dumbfounded.
Who does that? he thought. He wants us to catch him. Almost like he’s giving up.
But as Captain Cole thought that thought, his mind captioned it with a question mark. Is he giving up? Or does he want to be hunted?
---
Low-level journalists make a name for themselves by being nosey and by being lucky. There’s skill involved, too, but nosey and lucky come heavily into play.
Cassandra Johnson had a perfect combination of the three. She had grown up nosier than the average teenage girl, and that’s not a stretch. Additionally, she was an extremely gifted writer; she was able to bend and twist the English language at will, converting any piece of her writing in a near-poetic masterpiece, regardless of the subject matter. And on this day, January 21st, 2016, she was especially lucky.
As she sat at an intersection, just blocks away from Marco as he lied in Gene’s front yard, weeping and screaming curses into the grass, she was doing her makeup. It was a red light, so she didn’t feel any harm in doing it. Plus, she was running late for work so it was kind of a last resort necessity. But as she sat at that red light, a scene unfolded in front of her that more than just caught her attention - it demanded it.
First, it was a DPD patrol car, speeding through the intersection with its lights flashing and sirens blaring. Followed shortly thereafter by five more vehicles, also speeding, and some of which had removable dome police lights. Cassandra needed a good story, but more importantly, she needed to be the first with that good story. This could be it, after all. Who knows? It looked interesting enough.
She snapped up her blinker and turned right at the red light, quickly following the stream of cars headed in that direction. Cassandra, being a woman, was gifted at multi-tasking while driving. Somehow, she had miraculously managed to drive, finish her mascara, and call her boss all at once without flipping her car. The conversation was a short and sweet one; the only details she really gave is that she would be late into the office because she was following a live story. She gave no details because she had no details yet, but hopefully it would pay off for her and for her paper.
The drive wasn’t a long one, and she was parked in front of Gene’s house only minutes later. She waited and watched from her car, giving the men (and one woman) their time to work, before bombarding any one of them with questions. There were no other journalists here; there was no competition.
She noticed one man in the yard. He was on his knees with his arms folded, just staring. For the following several minutes he didn’t move, nor did he blink, nor did he noticeably breathe. What sort of hell had he been through?
And finally, after four dreadfully long minutes of watching from her car, she saw someone she recognized: Police Captain James Cole. She had interviewed him a few times, but he was always very tight-lipped - impossible to get any real info from. Great, she thought. He was walking towards what she knew to be his personal vehicle - a brand new Ford pickup truck that he kept pristine and shining. Seizing what was probably going to be her only opportunity (no one talked to the press without Captain’s direct permission), she leapt from her driver’s seat and ran him down.
Captain Cole was just the right amount of pissed off. He was so livid that he was actually willing, for once, to cooperate with the media - to open his tight lips about details of a case, but not so pissed off that he was unwilling to speak at all. Just the right amount of pissed off, luckily for Cassandra Johnson.
“Captain! Hey, wait! Do you have a moment?” Cassandra had to rush. Captain Cole was moving quickly for his truck, and if she didn’t, he would be gone and with him would go her chances of the details of this story. And in her rush, her stilettos nearly caused her to stumble and fall, and she hadn’t closed her car door all the way. It was open a crack - about the same amount as Gene’s door had been when Marco first arrived, and the interior light stayed on. She fumbled her things as she ran across the street and nearly dropped her journal, which would have scattered all kinds of papers in the street and risked the wind blowing them every which way. Finally, once she composed herself, she stood in front of the Captain, whose red truck door was halfway open as he was preparing to climb aboard.
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