Long Chills

by Ronald Kelly

  “The landlord,” said Lowery. “Mr. Jarrett.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” grunted Porter. He yawned and motioned for them to come inside. “You fellas will have to excuse me, but I work the graveyard shift. I catch my shut-eye in the daytime.”

  “We just need to know a few things,” Taylor told him. “Like what your impression of the two victims was and if you’ve noticed anything peculiar around the building lately.”

  “Well, old Jarrett was a first-class asshole. That’s about all I can tell you about him. The other fella, Killian, was an okay guy. Had a few beers and swapped a few war stories with the man. He was a die-hard Marine, just like yours truly.”

  Taylor walked over to a bulletin board that was set on the wall between the living room and the kitchenette. A number of items were pinned to the cork surface: a couple of purple hearts, an infantry insignia patch, and a few black and white photos of combat soldiers. “You were in Vietnam?” he asked.

  “Yes sir,” Porter said proudly. He shuffled to the refrigerator and took a Miller tall-boy from a lower shelf. “The Central Highlands from 1968 to ’69. Just when things were starting to get interesting over there.” He plopped down on a puke green couch and popped the top on his beer can.

  “What about things here in the building?” asked Lowery. “Any fights or arguments between the tenants or with the landlord? Maybe someone hanging around that you didn’t recognize?”

  “It hasn’t been any crazier than usual. I’m not surprised that it’s happening, what with all the crack dealers and gangs in this part of town.” Porter grinned broadly. “They just better not screw around old Sergeant Rock here.” He stuck his hand between the cushions of the couch and withdrew a Ka-Bar combat knife. “If they do, I’ll gut ’em from gullet to crotch.”

  The two detectives left their number and exited the apartment. As they headed up the stairs to the fifth floor, Taylor turned to his partner. “Did you notice anything strange back there in Porter’s apartment?”

  “Other than that wicked knife and the crazy look in the grunt’s eyes?” replied Lowery. “Not really. Did you?”

  Taylor nodded. “Those pictures on the bulletin board. One of them showed Porter wearing something other than his dog tags.”

  “And what was that?”

  “A necklace… made out of human ears.”

  “Interesting,” said Lowery, recalling the mutilation of the two victims. “Very interesting.”

  “What do ya’ll want?” glared the tenant of Apartment 5-C. The skinny black woman balanced a squalling baby on her hip as she stared at the two detectives standing in the hallway.

  “We’d like to talk to you about the recent murders here in the building, ma’am,” Lowery said. “May we come in for a moment?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” she said. “Just watch that you don’t go stepping on a young’un.”

  Lowery and Taylor walked in and were surprised to see four other kids, ranging from eighteen months to five years old, playing on the dirty carpeting of the living room floor. Three looked to be as dark-skinned as their mother, while one was obviously the odd sock of the bunch, from the lightness of its complexion and the color of its hair.

  When they asked Yolanda Armstrong about the landlord, she scowled in contempt. “That bastard got just what he deserved, if you ask me. He was white trash, that’s what he was. Wasn’t about to take responsibility for things that were rightly his own.”

  “Pardon me?” asked Taylor, trying to clarify what she was talking about.

  “The one beside the TV there, that’s his. I came up short on the rent a couple of summers ago and Jarrett took it out in trade. Tried to get him to wear a rubber, but he was all liquored up and horny.”

  Lowery’s face reddened slightly in embarrassment. “Uh, no need to go into your personal life, ma’am. All we need to know is if you’ve noticed anything strange going on in the building lately. Strangers in the hallway, or arguments you might have happened to overhear.”

  “Lordy Mercy!” exclaimed the woman. “If I was to pay attention to every bit of trouble that’s gone on in this building, I would’ve gone plumb crazy by now. Half the people in this place are junkies and drunks, and the other half are losers and lunatics. You’d just as well take your pick of the litter. Anybody in this here building could’ve killed both those men.”

  “Including yourself?” asked Taylor.

  “Don’t you go accusing me!” warned Yolanda Armstrong shaking a bony finger in his face. “True, I’ve been wronged more than most. But I’m too damned busy trying to put food in my babies’ mouths to go getting even with every man who treated me badly. I just take my lumps and hope they don’t come knocking on my door again.”

  After the two detectives left, they called on the rest of the tenants who were there at that time of day, then headed back downstairs. It was nearly twelve-thirty when they climbed into their car and headed for a rib joint on Peachtree Street. “So, what do you think?” asked Taylor. “Think we have suspect somewhere in that bunch?”

  “Maybe,” said Lowery. “Or our killer might be a neighborhood boy. A pusher or a pimp that Jarrett and Killian might have wronged in the past.”

  “Or we could have something a little more sinister on our hands. Maybe a serial killer.”

  “Let’s not go jumping to conclusions just yet,” Lowery told his partner. “This is just a couple of murders in a sleazy apartment building in South Atlanta, not some Thomas Harris novel. We’ll grab a bite to eat, then head back to the office and check out the crime photos and Walsh’s autopsy report. Later this evening we’ll go back and interview the tenants we missed the first time around.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Taylor. “I just hope we come up with something concrete pretty soon. I have a bad feeling that this could turn into a full-scale slaughter before it’s over and done with.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Lowery. “I’m afraid you might be right about that.”

  The warmth has gone and the chill of the winter twilight invades me once again, freezing the madness into my brain. My hands shudder and shake. They clench and unclench, yearning for the spurt of hot blood and the soft pliancy of moist tissue between their fingertips. The damnable winds must be stopped! They must be driven away. And only death can provide that blessed relief.

  But I must be careful. The first was easy enough, and so was the second, but only because no one expected it to happen again so soon. The next time might very well be the last. But it simply must be done. There is no denying that. Even if there are suspicious eyes and alert ears on guard throughout the building, I must let my hands do the work that they are so adept at. I must allow them to hunt out the warmth necessary to unthaw my frozen sanity.

  Oh, that infernal howling! The howling of those hellish winds!

  Lowery and Taylor were going over the coroner’s report and the 8x10s of the two victims, when a call came in from Doctor Walsh. Lowery answered and listened to the medical examiner for a moment. Then he hung up the phone and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. “Do you still have those binoculars in your desk drawer, Ed?” he asked hurriedly.

  Taylor recognized the gleam of excitement in his partner’s eyes. “Sure,” he said. “What’s up? Did Walsh come up with something important?”

  “Yep. He found some incriminating evidence on both of the bodies.”

  “What did he find?” pressed Taylor. He retrieved the binoculars from his desk and grabbed his own coat.

  “I’ll fill you in on the way,” said Lowery with a grim smile. “Let’s just say that I think our killer is going to strike again, sooner than we think. And I have a pretty good idea who it is.”

  The blanketed form was so sound asleep that it didn’t hear the metallic taps of light footsteps on the fire escape. Neither did it hear the rasp of the bedroom window sliding upward, giving entrance to a dark figure with the glint of honed steel in hand.

  The snoring tenant knew nothing of the intruder, u
ntil she felt the weight of the body pressing on her chest and the edge of a knife blade against the column of her throat. She lay perfectly still, afraid to move, waiting for the fatal slash to come. But the action was delayed. Instead, she felt a hand creep along her flesh, the fingers clenching and unclenching, searching through the darkness. Suddenly, she recalled the rumors that had been going around the building that day. Rumors of the organs that had been forcefully taken from Phil Jarrett and Joe Killian.

  Then, suddenly, the room was full of noise and commotion. She heard footsteps coming from the direction of the open window, as well as the sound of cursing. Abruptly, the weight of her attacker was pulled off of her, along with the sharpness of the deadly blade.

  Melba Cox reached over and turned on the lamp beside her bed.

  The two detectives who had visited her earlier that morning were standing in the room. The one named Taylor was beside the window, holding a snubnose .38 in his hand. The other, Lowery, was pressing the attacker face-first down on the hardwood boards of the bedroom floor. As Melba climbed shakily out of bed, she watched as the detective cuffed the killer’s hands.

  “Are you alright, ma’am?” asked Taylor, holstering his gun and walking over to her. She saw that he had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck.

  “I think so,” she muttered. She pressed a hand to her throat, but found no blood there.

  Then the face of the sobbing intruder twisted into view and the woman got a glimpse of who her assailant had been. “You!” she gasped. “I would’ve never figured you to be the one!”

  The wail of sirens echoed from uptown, heading swiftly along Courtland Street. A frigid wind whistled through the iron railing of the fire escape and whipped through the open window. The blustery chill caused Melba Cox and the two policemen to shiver, but it made the captured murderer howl in intense agony, as if the icy breeze was cutting past flesh and bone, and flaying the tortured soul underneath.

  It was two o’clock in the morning when Ken Lowery and Ed Taylor stood in the main hallway of their precinct, drinking hot coffee in silence. They dreaded the thought of entering the interrogation room and confronting the murderer and mutilator of Jarrett and Killian. The suspect had stopped the cries of torment when brought into the warmth of the police station. That was probably what had spooked the homicide detectives the most. Those awful screams blaming the winter winds on the madness that had taken the lives of two human beings.

  “Well, I guess we’d better get it over with,” said Lowery, crumpling his Styrofoam cup and tossing it into a wastebasket.

  “I reckon so,” said Taylor. He thought of the suspect and shuddered. He secretly wished he had taken two weeks of his vacation time instead of only one. Then he would have been fast asleep in an Orlando hotel room, rather than confronting a psychopath in the early hours of the morning.

  They opened the door and stepped inside. The suspect was sitting at a barren table at the center of the room. Fingers that had once performed horrible mutilation by brute strength alone, now rested peacefully on the Formica surface. There was an expression of calm on the suspect’s face. The cold December winds had been sealed away by the insulated walls of the police station, returning the killer to a sense of serenity. It was a serenity that was oddly frightening in comparison to the tormented screams that had filled the car during the brief ride back to the precinct.

  “You can go now, officer,” Taylor told the patrolman who had been keeping an eye on the suspect.

  “Thanks,” said the cop, looking relieved. “This one really gives me the creeps.”

  After the officer had left, Lieutenant Lowery and Sergeant Taylor took seats on the opposite side of the table and quietly stared at the suspect for a moment.

  “What put you onto me?” the killer asked. “How did I slip up?”

  “The coroner found some strange hair samples on the bodies of Jarrett and Killian,” Lowery told him. “Dog hair. And you were the only one in the building who was allowed to keep an animal.”

  Dwight Rollins smiled and nodded. “Unknowingly betrayed by my best friend,” he said, then bent down and patted the German Shepherd on the head. “I don’t blame you, though, Conrad. I should have brushed off my clothes before I went out.”

  The dog whimpered and licked at its master’s shoes. Lowery and Taylor had brought the dog along, hoping that it would pacify the old man. But only the warmth of the interrogation room had quelled the imaginary storm that raged in the blind man’s mind.

  “Can we ask why, Mr. Rollins?” questioned Lowery. “Why did you do such a terrible thing?”

  Rollins calmly reached up and removed his dark glasses. “This is why.”

  “Good Lord,” gasped Taylor, grimacing at the sight of the man’s eyeless sockets.

  “It happened when I was a child,” explained Rollins. “I was running like youngsters do, not really watching where I was going. I tripped and fell face down into a rake that was buried in the autumn leaves. The tines skewered both my eyes and blinded me for life. I used to have glass eyes, you know, during happier and more prosperous days. But hard times fell upon me and I had to pawn them to buy groceries. I had no idea what a horrible mistake that was.”

  “And why was that?” asked Lowery. He tried to lower his gaze, but the gaping black pits in the man’s face commanded his attention, filling him with a morbid fascination.

  “I could have never foreseen the horror of the winds,” he said. “They’ve tormented me during these first days of winter. They squeezed past my glasses and swirled through my empty eye sockets, turning them into cold caves. And do you know what lurked in the damp darkness of those caves, gentlemen? Demons. Winter demons that encased my brain in ice and drove me toward insanity. I would have become a raving lunatic, if it hadn’t been for my hands.” He brought his wrinkled hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly. “They saved me. They found the means to seal away the winds… if only for a short time.”

  Taylor felt goosebumps prickle the flesh of his arms. “You mean the stolen organs? The eyes of Jarrett and Killian?”

  “Yes. They blocked out the winds. But they didn’t last for very long. They would soon lose their warmth and feel like cold jelly in my head.” A mischievous grin crossed Rollin’s cadaverous face, giving him the unnerving appearance of a leering skull. “You know, I was wearing them when you gentlemen came to call.”

  “Wearing them?” asked Lowery with unease. “You don’t mean – “

  “Yes,” replied Rollins. “Jarrett’s eyes. I was wearing them when you came to my apartment yesterday morning.” The old man put his glasses back on. “And you didn’t even know it.”

  An awkward silence hung in the room for a moment, the Taylor spoke. “You’ll be transferred to the psychiatric section of the city jail across town. A couple of officers will take you there later this morning. You’ll remain in custody until your arraignment, after which you’ll likely be sent to the state mental hospital. There you’ll be evaluated to see if you’re psychologically fit to stand trial.”

  “Very well,” said Rollins passively. “But I do hope that the cell they put me in is well-heated.”

  “We’ll make sure that it is,” promised Lieutenant Lowery. “I’m afraid that you won’t be able to take your dog with you, though. It’s against police policy, even given your handicap. But we’ll see to it that Conrad gets sent to a good home. Maybe we can find some blind kid who needs a trained guide dog.”

  “That would be nice,” said Rollins. “But couldn’t he just ride to the jail with me? That wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

  “No,” allowed Lowery. “I suppose we could bend the rules just this once.”

  “God bless you,” said the old man. He leaned down and hugged his dog lovingly.

  After calling for an officer to watch the confessed murderer and leaving instructions for those who would transport Rollins to the main jail, Ken Lowery and Ed Taylor left the station, hoping to get a few hours sleep that morning. As they
walked through the precinct parking lot, a stiff winter breeze engulfed them, ruffling their clothing and making them squint against the blast of icy air.

  Before reaching their cars, each man put himself in the shoes of Dwight Rollins. They wondered how they might have reacted if the cold winds had swirled inside their own heads, and if they might not have grown just as mad as the elderly blind man under the same circumstances.

  It is cold here in the police van. The officers who are driving me to my incarceration claim that the heater is broken and tell me to quit complaining, so I do. I sit here silently, enduring the creeping pangs of winter, hoping that I can make it to the jailhouse before a fine blanket of frost infects the convolutions of my aged brain and once again drives me toward madness.

  A mile. Two miles. How far away is the comforting warmth of my designated cell? It is dark here in the back of the van. Dark and as cold as a tomb. My hands jitter, rattling the handcuffs around my wrists. I try to restrain them as they resume their wandering. Through the shadows they search for the warmth that I must have.

  My friend. My dearest friend in the world… I am so very sorry. But it shall be over soon enough, I promise you that. You must remain faithful, my dear Conrad. You must serve me in death, just as you have in life.

  You must help me block out the winds. Those horrible winds within.

  Of Crows & Pale Doves

  Fletcher Brice loved to read.

  His avarice for the written word began at an early age…cuddling in his mother’s lap in the old rocking chair by the stone hearth of the log cabin high atop Pale Dove Mountain, teleported by the tales and truths of the Holy Bible, as well as stories from a battered copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales passed down by his maternal grandmother shortly before her death. Later, he learned to read—with difficulty and determination—on his own and found himself visiting the wonders of Treasure Island, the other side of the Looking Glass, and the center of the very Earth itself.