by Rusk, Day
Leslie took a deep breath and opened the door. He really wasn’t sure why he had come here tonight.
The familiar sight of the group, ten strong, with Will, its leader, some sort of head doctor if he recalled correctly - not a full blown psychiatrist, but one of those who specialized in head shrinking and were able to give themselves a suitable title, like counselor, or something like that – was in full session. He never really paid attention to the group leader’s credentials, because for the most part he seemed to be there to just say stuff like, And how’d that make you feel? Go on, and so on. He said very little; his sole task seemed to be to get the others to talk and keep talking.
They were seated in the usual circle of folding chairs. Will looked up when he’d entered and smiled at him, but didn’t verbally acknowledge him, no doubt not wanting to break the train of thought of the mousy, middle-aged man who had the floor, talking about his own personal horror, or his feelings, or something like that.
Leslie made his way over to the foldout table where a pot of coffee was always on hand, along with some donuts or assorted pastries - whatever the thoughtful members of the group had thought to bring along. He poured himself a coffee and took a sip. Why was he here? Maybe it had something to do with Donna leaving him. For the longest time she had thought he was still attending and was proud of him; what she didn’t know was he’d given up on the group months ago and was in no way getting better, but instead, doing what he always did, retreating into himself at the expense of all those around him. He was good at that; practice made perfect.
Those in the group weren’t bad; their stories, the horrors they had experienced, he empathized with them. Some of them had even been closer to the violence than he’d been; some were even survivors of that violence, having miraculously survived their wounds and now felt guilty because some loved one hadn’t. All in all, they were good people, and they were working on their demons. Maybe he was defected, he thought. He hadn’t been making the progress others had.
Realizing he was just wasting time and prolonging the inevitable by staying out of the sacred circle, and as such, free from participation, he made his way over to them and found an empty chair. There was always a couple of empty chairs in the circle, the belief that if anyone showed up late and wanted to join, they wouldn’t have to look for a seat and squeeze in; the seat was sitting there waiting for them – welcoming.
“I know a lot of time has passed, years even. People keep telling me, you know, that tired old adage, ‘Time heals all wounds,’ but I really don’t know what that means,” said the mousy, middle-aged man, whom if Leslie’s memory served him right was named Charles.
“Time has passed and I don’t feel any better about it,” continued Charles. “Time won’t heal any wounds, senility might. My only hope is that as I get older I get forgetful, or lose my mind, and maybe then, and only then, is it all going to be all right. Is that the only hope I have?”
Leslie took a couple of seconds to take in the group; quite a few of them he remembered from sessions months ago. They had obviously stuck with the group when he had bailed. He envied them their commitment, and with that, their hope that something good or manageable would come out of all this. It was the woman in the middle of the group that really caught his attention, however. She seemed out of place with this ragtag group of survivors.
There are a lot of beautiful women in the world. In his own way, Leslie was a connoisseur. He found beauty in a lot of them, and not just those who seemed to conform to society, or the fashion magazine’s ideal of a beautiful woman. He recognized it in many different sizes and shapes of women, but it was rare for any one woman to grab his attention to the point of distraction. She did.
As he’d missed introductions, he didn’t know her name. She sat quietly in the group, listening, and perfectly poised in an expensive business woman’s suit; she was tastefully and immaculately put together. She looked to be in about her late twenties or early thirties, with beautiful long, raven black hair, full pouty lips and dark eyes, which Leslie was sure, could penetrate right through a man if she was willing to grace him with her gaze. Somehow the whole package came together wonderfully and truly captivated him. Despite trying to concentrate on Charles' and Will’s discussion, he found himself sneaking furtive glances in her direction; although she seemed not to notice, her stare intent on the speakers, taking in all they were saying.
“You have to give people some leeway,” Will was saying to Charles and the group. “It’s like when someone tells you a loved one has passed away. You desperately want to say something that will comfort them. Find a way for your words to make them feel better, but the truth of the matter is nothing we say can do that. So, we often fall back on clichés and such. They’re just trying to be comforting, that’s all.”
“But they don’t have to say anything,” offered Betty, another group member.
“It is human nature, that’s all,” said Will. “We all feel we have to say something.”
Will took a second to glance down at his clipboard and notes. “I see Charles that you have another anniversary coming up soon. Your sister was murdered, what, seven years ago this coming Friday?”
Charles shook his head, Yes.
“So, you’re saying because it’s human nature it’s all right for people to say these things. Human nature makes it all right?” asked Leslie, breaking into the conversation.
Will looked to him, as did the others. “Let me first say, it’s a pleasure to see you back at the group, Leslie. We all missed you.”
Leslie just smiled at him. If Will was anything it was good with names.
“Human nature, or giving in to what we call human nature that makes it all right, right?” he asked.
“Is it so bad that others should show concern?” countered Will.
“I’m just saying, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking on the matter; all the things we talk about. Isn’t it also human nature for any of us, or all of us, to want revenge?” asked Leslie.
That was the first time the new woman looked at him. The word revenge seemed to spark interest in her; her reaction could almost be compared to someone hauling off and slapping someone across the face. She and Leslie shared a brief but intense stare, until Will broke their moment.
“You know we don’t talk in terms of revenge here, Leslie,” said Will. “This group is not about that, but about healing. Revenge is not a cure, but something that will only damage on a deeper level.”
“Yes, I know,” said Leslie. “We can talk about anything we want in here, except what probably lays at the core of all our thoughts and desires. Revenge. It is human nature; built into our DNA. It’s Biblical. An eye for an eye.”
There were a few murmurs of approval from those gathered around; and, to be fair, a few who didn’t agree with the notion of revenge.
“Such thoughts, or acting upon such thoughts, I can guarantee you will do nothing to solve your problems. Anyone’s problems. Seeking revenge in any way would be wrong. Counterproductive to the healing process. You know this topic...”
“I know it scares you,” said Leslie with some force, interrupting Will. “I know you don’t want us to talk about it, but open up in other ways, but let’s face it, it’s the elephant in the room. We all harbor these thoughts, even though for many of us the years, or in my case, decades have passed us by. Ignoring it, or sweeping it under the rug, is not going to make any of us feel better, because whether you like it or not, after all the feel good talk we do here, when we leave here and get in our cars or the privacy of our own homes, thoughts of revenge do cross our minds. Am I not right?”
Once again, murmurs of approval arose from those in the group.
“Why can’t we get to the heart of that matter, Revenge?” asked Leslie.
Leslie knew Will was losing momentary control of the group, and his mind was probably racing with ways to bring them all back into focus, when the sound of one of the chairs scraping across the floor captured all of their at
tention. He, like the others, looked over to see the latest group member, the mystery woman, standing up. Her chair had accidentally moved a little too much when she stood up and scrapped across the fake hard wood floor and now every eye was on her. She looked uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry. Bonnie, is it?” asked Will.
“Yes...Bonnie,” she said.
Leslie could see on her face that she felt extremely uncomfortable, suddenly being in the spotlight.
“I’m sorry. We’ve gotten a little off topic. Taken a direction we shouldn’t even be addressing. I know you’re new to the group. Would you like to tell us a little something about yourself and why you’re here?”
The woman took a couple of seconds to scan the faces of those in the circle, all looking expectantly at her. Leslie had done a lot of interviews over the years, and had become adept at reading body language and facial cues, and he could see Will was dreaming if he thought she was about to share anything with this group.
“No, no. That’s okay,” she said. “I actually have to be going.”
“But Bonnie...,” Will started to say; it didn’t matter, the woman had turned and headed for the door, not quite at a run, but definitely with hurried determination. She made it to the door and out without ever looking back.
Leslie watched her flee. He could sympathize; there’d been many moments with this group where he had wanted to do the same, and, he guessed, had done so with his long absence from the meetings. He hadn’t meant to bring up a topic that would bother anyone new to the group, but, unfortunately, thoughts of revenge and the desire to act on them, had been bothering him for quite some time. It’d been a long time since the murder of his entire family; long enough for him to have healed, but he hadn’t; at least not in any significant way that would allow him to truly get on with his emotional life. He wanted revenge, even after all this time, and he wanted to know if that was normal. Did any of the other members feel the same way, or was this another abnormality that only plagued him? He just wanted to know. Hell, he needed to know.
chapter FIVE
detective RAY Michaels entered the warehouse sure of what he was going to find. He and Detective Bryan Stork had done some digging and discovered the assistant manager at Grant’s Grocery was in fact a piss poor gambler. He was in debt up to his eyeballs with a bookie that everyone in law enforcement knew worked for Morgan Neil. He was the one who had let Morgan’s goons into the back of the grocery store, helping them escort Joe Weldon to the great beyond.
They had tried to get the assistant manager, Dave Strickland, to tell them who had arranged for him to leave the door open, but, surprisingly, Strickland was sticking to his story that it had been an honest mistake, his forgetting to lock the door; the fact killers had used that mistake to murder someone was, in Strickland’s opinion, just one of those weird coincidences that lets you know there’s something greater out there manipulating our lives. No one was buying it, but Strickland was sticking to his story, as ludicrous as it was. As far as they could figure, he was simply more afraid of Morgan and his henchmen than he was of the police. It was a matter of who was the bigger boogie man in Strickland’s eyes.
As they hadn’t gotten too far on the case of the Mashed-Up Mobster, as he liked to refer to it, when he’d gotten a call this afternoon to respond to a homicide in an abandoned warehouse, he was sure he’d be staring at the body of yet another Morgan associate; one of the other turncoats who had joined Joe in his illfated attempt to overthrow Morgan and was now joining him in the afterlife. He was more than a little surprised to discover that wasn’t the case. He was at the scene of an unrelated homicide, not linked to the city’s underworld, but something a lot more demented than that.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” said Ray quietly, and to no one in particular. His partner, Bryan was as equally dumbfounded.
“Who found this mess?” asked Bryan.
“Some intended squatters,” offered a uniformed police officer who was one of the original cops called to the scene.
“And you found him this way?” asked Bryan. He knew it was a stupid question. Of course they’d found the body this way. They hadn’t found a perfectly normal homicide victim and doctored him up for him and his partner. It was a stupid question, but one he asked nonetheless. He was buying some time, taking in the scene, trying to figure out what the hell had happened here; or what kind of demented individual had put together this little tableau.
“Haven’t touched a thing,” said the Police Officer, “thought we’d leave it up to you guys.”
“You know something, Bryan,” said Ray. “I’m beginning to miss the good ole days. You know when a homicide was a shooting; maybe a stabbing or strangulation - the oldies but the goodies. Someone wanted to get a little creative; maybe they pulled a Capone and picked up a baseball bat or an ice pick. I mean, what the fuck is all this?”
“I know what you mean,” said Bryan.
The two of them just stood there looking at the body of Leonard Cabot, although neither knew that was the name of the man – or mess – they were currently observing.
The victim was definitely dead; and in doing so he had also become a macabre piece of art. Ray and Bryan took their time taking in the scene; their victim had been crucified on a large wooden cross. The victim’s hands had been tied to both ends of the cross, but the killer had felt that wasn’t enough, and had taken the time to drive large nails through his palms. Other parts of the body were also nailed to the cross, including his feet. The nails were thick and heavy duty, but really didn’t have to hold a lot of the weight, as the body itself had been cut into sections - dissected; the legs separated at the knees and upper thighs; the arms were separated at the elbows and the shoulders. The actual torso of the body was tied to the cross with thick rope, with nails augmenting it to keep it in place. The rope was tied around both the upper and lower torso, leaving enough space for the killer to gut the victim. The killer had actually taken the time to slit open his guts and extract his intestines, which were not only wrapped around the body - only a couple of loops - but trailed down to the floor of the warehouse where they snaked around the victim’s decapitated head. If that weren’t enough, the head rested on the floor, propped up by the intestines, the mouth open in a silent scream and the eye sockets hollow. The eyes themselves were nailed to the top of the cross, along with the victim’s genitalia, his drooping penis giving off the impression of being a nose, and his two hairy balls, a bit of a mustache seeing as they were there directly underneath the eyes – almost a comedic Snuffaluffagus impersonation.
“We got anything here to identify the vic?” asked Ray.
“We found this off to the side in some clothes. A business suit,” offered one of the crime scene officers working the scene. He handed Ray a wallet.
“Leonard Cabot,” said Ray after taking a couple of seconds to look through the wallet. “Who the hell do you think he pissed off?”
“You ever seen anything like this, Detective?” asked the crime scene officer who’d handed him the wallet.
“I don’t think anyone has,” he said. It was time to go to work. “Make sure we have photos of this from every conceivable angle. I don’t want anything moved or dismantled until we’ve photographed, bagged and tagged everything we can get our hands on. I want a thorough job on this one. Nothing missed. Got it?”
The officer nodded his head and went back to work, joining the activity of all the others doing their best to collect evidence and ignore the fact they were in the presence of the work of one seriously fucked up killer.
“What are you thinking?” asked Bryan.
“Was hoping for a Morgan Neil crime scene,” said Ray. “Something straightforward; he definitely doesn’t kill like this.”
Ray moved closer to the body, examining it carefully. “I don’t know. Look at it. The staging. It’s one thing to find the balls to kill someone, but this. The commitment to this crime, the staging of the body, everything, it’s insane.”
“This took effort. Even the location was perfectly picked. A lot of these warehouses in this district have been abandoned for quite some time now. Gave him the opportunity to do his slicing and dicing – set up this little scene at his leisure.”
“Yeah, but why?”
Ray had to ask despite the fact he knew Bryan had no answers for him. He also knew he’d be equally troubled when he finally got the chance to find out why direct from the killer’s mouth; the time it took to do this, and the mess in the warehouse, Ray was sure that somewhere in there was the evidence they’d need to find the bastard.
The Survivor’s meeting the other night had not gone well. Will had lost control of the group and Leslie had been the reason why. And he had made sure Leslie heard about it afterwards. Leslie knew the score, the group was all about healing, not revenge. No one was supposed to bring up those feelings, but that’s how he felt. Will hadn’t exactly kicked him out of the group, but had made it abundantly clear that if he were to return, he expected him to follow the rules. Leslie had no idea whether or not he intended to go back.
“The evening’s edition, Mr. Marshall,” said one of the mail room employees who tossed a copy of the Lakeview Examiner on his desk.
He was working late again; well, not really working, but killing time. He really had nowhere to go now that Donna was out of his life, and his office was as good a place as any to hang out and write. Leslie put his feet up on his desk and started flipping through the news section of the newspaper – the place, many of his colleagues reminded him, where the real journalists lived, not the entertainment section. As far as he was concerned, they could have that. He was comfortable in his world. Why chase ambulances when you could attend cocktail parties?
Leslie had been in the newspaper business long enough, that as he flipped through the pages, it just seemed to be the same old same old. The names of the politicians might be different, but the bullshit they were spouting in the City section, promising or trying to get away with, never seemed to change. The news just seemed like an endless parade of nothing new or exciting, at least until he reached the editorial page. There it was, the one thing in the paper that interested him, Walter Souchak’s column.
