by Rusk, Day
Ray had also joined a hockey league; a bunch of middle-aged or older men, such as himself, who met once a week to play some non-contact hockey for fun. It helped keep him fit and helped him blow off some steam.
His last coping mechanism was literature and music. Growing up, music had meant a lot to him, as it does for many teenagers. He’d been an avid rock ‘n’ roll fan, embracing the legends, such as the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Springsteen, Bowie, the Who, etcetera. He still listened to their music – he had no idea what passed for rock ‘n’ roll today – but in recent years had embraced country music. While it opened him up for a lot of teasing, he found it soothing. It seemed kind of foolish for a man of his age to be embracing today’s rock ‘n’ roll; at the same time, he found the pacing of country music and the fact a lot of the songs seemed to tell a story, to be just what he needed. He’d traded the likes of Mick Jagger and Roger Daltrey for Tim McGraw and Brad Paisley, and was content with the trade.
For literature, he read a wide variety books, enjoying the adventure stories of Clive Cussler, the horror fiction of Stephen King, and much more. He had stayed away, for the longest time, from the True Crime section of the book store; he got enough true crime every day at work. Over the past years, however, he had picked up a few books on serial killers, just out of curiosity. In his long career, that was the one killer he had never run across, and, to tell you the truth, the one type of killer he didn’t want to run across. Every other killer he could in some way understand, but it seemed to him the serial killer was very different – a true challenge. He could have lived his entire career without running up against one of these killers, but it looked like his luck had finally run out. As he stood there on the first floor of the abandoned office building, starring at the mutilated body of Anthony Whyte, and thinking back upon the mutilated body of Leonard Cabot, he suspected that Lakeview had a serial killer on their hands and he and Detective Bryan Stork had been the lucky two who had pulled the case.
“This is fucking insane,” said Bryan as he walked around the perimeter of the body; the same M.O. as Leonard; cut apart and nailed or tied by rope to a cross; the eyes, penis and balls, where the head should be; the head, of course, on the floor, surrounded by and propped up by the intestines.
“Anthony Whyte,” said Ray as he looked through the victim’s wallet. “Based on the plastic I’m seeing in here, I’d say our victim is another big spender.”
“The layout of the body. Jesus, it’s almost artistic.”
“It has to mean something,” said Ray.
“But what?”
Ray knew better than to answer. Bryan was just trying to work things out in his mind by spitballing and talking to himself and Ray at the same time. They’d been partners long enough for both of them to know each other’s process.
“If we’re lucky, we can tie Anthony Whyte to our first victim. Might just give us the lead we’re looking for,” said Bryan.
“Let’s hope,” said Ray.
Right now they needed any lead they could get their hands on. They’d been working hard on the Cabot murder, tracking down his movements on the day and hours before he disappeared and was murdered; looking into his financial background, family and friends, looking for anything that might lead them in the right direction. They knew he was divorced and that the divorce had not been amicable. That seemed to be the biggest hiccup in his life, and while it wasn’t necessarily uncommon for a spouse to take out their husband or wife during a divorce, both Ray and Bryan suspected that wasn’t the case. If so, the crime would have been simpler; the kills not as decorative and involved as the ones they witnessed. That just seemed a little over the top.
Now, with Anthony’s murder, he suspected it was the work of a serial killer. They had tracked down Leonard’s last movements to a bar in the financial district, Tabby’s; not one of the more popular places where the younger success stories hung out, but a nice enough place on it’s own. It turned out Leonard had been a regular, having hit on and taken home many of the bars female regulars. As far as they could tell, on the night he went missing, he left the bar with a young woman; an attractive younger woman. Even as they canvassed some of the regulars, he had detected a note of envy in the men, who no doubt had wanted to leave that night with the same woman. The fact Leonard had ended up dead, didn’t seem to factor into their fantasies.
It’s possible we’re looking for a woman, thought Ray. He looked at the scene before him and wondered what it would take for a woman to pull this off. They did know Leonard had been drugged, so it was definitely possible. A beautiful woman wouldn’t have to do much to get most guys into the position she wanted them in. Most guys were so desperate they’d agree to anything if they thought it would get them between the sheets with a beautiful young thing; so it was possible their killer was a woman. At the same time, Leonard may have left that woman’s apartment and met with his killer in the dead of night on his way home. Seeing how the killer had been careful at the scene of the murder, leaving them nothing to go on, it was anybody’s guess.
“Forensics came up with nothing at the last scene,” said Bryan, “let’s hope the killer has gotten sloppy.”
Ray nodded his head in approval. He and Bryan would do the legwork necessary to track Anthony Whyte’s movements, looking for some clue as to who had killed him, but other than that, their best bet was still the hope that with each murder committed the killer would get clumsier and clumsier and accidentally leave something of value behind for them to go on. Based on what he’d read in those True Crime books he’d eventually bought, that could either be the second murder or the twentieth murder. Definitely not a pleasant thought.
Leslie’s run-in with Harry haunted him. He’d been so sure of himself when he set out that night that he couldn’t understand how it had gone so wrong so quickly; most importantly, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t reached for the gun, even when he thought his life was in danger. None of it made any sense, but he couldn’t stop going over and over it again in his mind.
He’d taken quite a beating in the alley and it showed, so he took a couple of days off; seeing how he was a bestselling author and his Editor knew that, no one ever complained when he called in sick; they could fire him, but who’d care. He had the kind of ‘fuck you’ money in the bank that gave him a certain freedom others could only dream of. He also wasn’t prepared to answer all the questions that would be thrown at him, when his colleagues saw his face. What would he tell them?
Instead, he sat at home, licking his wounds. While he was haunted by the confrontation and how it played out, he was also troubled by Harry’s words. He’d been led to believe his family’s murder had been a random event; a home invasion or a case of mistaken identity. No one had ever said anything to him about his father and a connection with Morgan Neil or organized crime. That was insane. But Harry had seemed pretty damned sure. Harry seemed to know a lot more than he did; and he needed to know everything.
It was after seven on the second night of his playing hooky, that Leslie made his way to the paper. Most of the day staff would be long gone, and he’d have a good chance of arriving at his destination without running into a lot of people, or a lot of individuals who knew him well enough to question him about his appearance. He knew exactly who could tell him what he needed to know – his old friend Walter.
“You look like shit,” said Walter when Leslie darkened his door.
“Feel it,” said Leslie.
Leslie knew Walter would be working late; he came in late every morning and stayed late every night; Leslie knew Walter’s wife of almost fifty years, had passed away seven years ago, and since that time, Walter had found no reason to leave work early and head for home. The way Leslie figured it, Walter was trying to avoid going home; a place that once brought him comfort, but now in its emptiness, just reminded him how alone he was in the world.
“You join a fight club, or something?” asked Walter as Leslie took a seat in front of his desk.
“Ran into an old friend,” said Leslie, “had a lot to say about my Father.”
Walter, who had been paying half attention to Leslie, but also digging through papers on his desk, looking for something, stopped what he was doing and looked at his friend; the day he suspected would come, sounded like it was upon him.
“Old friends usually leave you in better shape than that,” said Walter.
They were doing a verbal dance, and Walter knew it, but at the same time, he wasn’t exactly keen on hearing what he knew Leslie would be getting at.
“Tell me about my Father, Walter.”
“Your Father?”
“I know your hearing’s not that bad, old man,” said Leslie. “Tell me about my Father.”
“What is there to tell?”
“You’ve been covering the crime beat for a long time, Walter. You’re our resident expert on Morgan Neil and his gang. According to my old friend, Morgan and my Dad were quite the pair.”
Leslie watched Walter carefully; he could see Walter was uncomfortable, but to hell with him, he wanted answers. Walter leaned back in his chair, all the time looking intently at Leslie.
“There are some places in life that are best not to go, kid,” said Walter.
“Tell me about my father, Walter.”
“None of this will lead anywhere good.”
Leslie just stared at Walter; Walter could see he was serious and determined.
“What exactly do you want to know?” asked Walter.
“Was he a killer?”
Walter looked uncomfortable.
“Word on the street is he was a bigger problem than Morgan himself,” said Leslie.
Walter took a deep breath. “He was a killer,” he said. “What do you remember about him?”
“What does that matter?”
“There’s no point in going where you’re going,” said Walter. “What will it accomplish? If you have good memories of your Father, the two of you playing catch or going to baseball games, whatever, why tread on those? I’m sure your father kept his other life away from you guys, especially at that age. Why not just remember those family moments; embrace them? Why dig up dirt? The ugliness?”
“That ugliness destroyed my family,” said Leslie. “That other life brought death to our home.”
“Nothing will change that.”
Walter watched as Leslie got up from his seat. He could see he was deep in thought and watched as he started pacing back and forth.
“All these years and no one, NO ONE, has told me the truth,” he said, as he stopped pacing. “The truth about my Father has been hidden from me. I have a right to know.”
“Why GODDAMNIT?” asked Walter.
“To see what I’m made of,” answered Leslie. “What I’m capable of.”
“You’re not your father, kid. Trust me, I know.”
“Well maybe I want to be.”
Walter just looked at him. He had an idea how Leslie had acquired his wounds, but didn’t know for sure. He did know, however, that his young friend was heading down a very dangerous path; one that could lead to his ultimate destruction. But how to stop him?
“Really?” said Walter. “There are some things in life you shouldn’t wish for. That you should never want. EVER.”
“Are you going to help me or not?”
Walter knew this day would come; lately he figured he might just kick the bucket before it did; and in many ways wished he had. Dan Marshall had been a real piece of work, but Leslie, his boy, the only surviving member of the Marshall family, he was a gem; a good person who had made something out of his life, despite circumstances that might have wrecked others forever. Looking into the true nature of his Father wasn’t going to do anything except derail that good life, but if Leslie wanted it, what could he do? He’d either get it from him, or elsewhere.
“I’ll put together a file,” said Walter. “Everything I covered in the past with your Father’s involvement. That’ll have to do.”
“Thank you.”
“And while I’m at it, old friend, maybe I’ll work up an obituary for a good friend, because the road you’re heading down isn’t going to lead anywhere good.”
“Fine,” said Leslie, heading for the door. “I’ve always liked your style. I’ll consider it an honor.”
Walter just watched as Leslie exited his office.
chapter TEN
traffic WAS at a crawl; it was later in the evening, but that was how cities were, always busy. The majority of the problem was the cars slowing down as they passed the Sylvia Cumming’s Art Gallery, which unlike other nights, now had a couple of large klieg lights in front of it, shooting spotlights into the sky, a red carpet leading from the curb to its front door and valets standing at the curb, ready to park the cars of the various well-to-do individuals who were attending tonight’s private showing, and who were blocking one of the two lanes on Chester Street that made things move faster.
Leslie made his way towards the lights. He had almost decided not to come out tonight, preferring to stay at home licking his wounds and thinking about his father; he’d hit the library and looked up books on organized crime, but had only found a few footnotes about Morgan Neil’s early career and only one mention of his father in passing. No one had yet to write a definitive book on Morgan Neil’s rise to power, although he was sure down the road it would happen.
After his parent’s deaths, he had been placed in numerous foster homes, outside of the city. He had no immediate family, and while he didn’t realize it at the time, the Feds were keeping him away from Lakeview and Morgan’s gang, probably fearing he’d end up dead. He wondered how many times from the age of ten to eighteen that the Feds had wondered if he’d be up to testifying against Morgan; there was no statute of limitations on murder, and he had been an eyewitness, but he guessed they felt he was never strong enough to take the stand, and as the years passed, was probably a prime candidate to be taken apart by the various high-priced lawyers Morgan employed when trouble did come his way. It must have been so hard for them to have an eyewitness, but realize he was a troubled and emotionally damaged ten-year-old; somebody in law enforcement must have been looking out for him, to have encouraged them not to put him through such an ordeal.
When he had turned eighteen that was when he was free to make his own way in life; and that was when he finally made his way back to Lakeview. He attended college here and stayed on after finding work with the newspaper. The Feds that had checked in on him from time to time over the years, stopped doing so, and he went about the city safely, unaware that the Morgan gang, that had once had a hit out on him, had forgotten him as well. Time had passed and he’d been no threat, so why waste time worrying? It had never occurred to him that by moving back to Lakeview he was in any way putting his life in danger.
Why he had never wanted to know more about his parents, he didn’t quite understand. Maybe it was because he knew there was no one around to tell him much. He just lived with whatever memories he could recall; the good times; family laughter and family fun. Now he wanted more. There was more to the story of how he had gotten where he was than even he knew and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. He wanted to know who his father was; where he had come from, good or bad.
Leslie used the time it took to walk from his condo building to the art gallery to review all of this in his mind. He hadn’t wanted to come here tonight and disrupt those thoughts – although, really, he wasn’t getting anywhere by obsessing on them and wouldn’t get anywhere until Walter gave him some information – but at the same time his Editor was counting on him and it was highly unprofessional to blow off a story - definitely not his style. Even though he was dressed for the occasion in his finest expensive suit, his fellow gallery goers would have to put up with the fact his face was still banged up from his adventure the other night. He laughed to himself knowing it would offer some of them a cheap thrill as they tried to figure out what had happened to him; these were people who didn’t get t
heir hands dirty.
Leslie paused outside the gallery, to take in the scene. It seemed a little overblown, but then again what did he know. Maybe this was how they did it in the world of art. He looked at the sign in the art gallery’s front window: THE MERRY PRANKED by GAIL RUSSELL it read. What really caught his attention was the picture of the artist, Gail Russell, whom he immediately recognized. She had been the woman lying about her name at the Survivor’s meeting; the one who had caught his attention and held it, until she had fled the scene.
Interesting, he thought.
It could be coincidence, but then again, he knew life liked to play with you from time to time; he just didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
The gallery was jammed with the city’s wealthy; a gaggle of well-dressed people sipping champagne and cocktails, chowing down on hors d'oeuvres, and pretending they understood the art they were looking at. The only ones there who weren’t playing a role or pretending, were the various Waiters and Waitresses who were moving around the crowded gallery serving the drinks and hors d'oeuvres. In his article, he’d probably say the event brought out the city’s best and brightest, but that would be just a standard line, as he looked around the event and wondered, If these were the city's best and brightest, just how bad a shape were we in anyways?
