Forgive Me, Alex

by Lane Diamond

  I'm sorry, Tony. I'll miss you. And you too, Dad.

  His mind flashed to the many joyous experiences of his life. Tony, ever-present in those images, taught him to play baseball and basketball and football, playing catch or shooting hoops with him for hours on end. Those were his happiest moments. He loved his father too, despite his prolonged absences and distant manner. Most of all, Tony was his family and his rock, and he would miss him more than anyone.

  What would happen to Tony when he was gone? Tony would be devastated, and he felt terribly sad for his big brother—a grown-up way to think, under the circumstances. Although he didn't understand the genesis of these thoughts, they pleased him.

  The memories of his mother had been fading recently, but she now came to him and spoke in her soft way, with a voice pure as starlight. Her loving face shone and exuded warmth, like a soft blanket that covered him and protected him from the monster. She positively glowed, shrouded in unimaginable light.

  The bad man interrupted Alex's vision. "If you see the light, be joyful that I have delivered you. If you see the fire, then know that we shall meet again, and together we shall dance the long death through the eternal flames, for those I have chosen as my own."

  The mean man held up the knife for one final inspection. Alex clenched his eyes shut. He wanted to see only the happy memories. He prayed to a God in whom he trusted despite the severe punishment he faced. He didn't understand, but calm enveloped him, and again a warm light embraced him, so comforting that he forgot the threat he faced in this terrible place.

  Although a mere flash in his mind, it felt to Alex like a long escape.

  He relived every happy experience of his short life, more numerous than he'd realized. Aware of his memories as never before, he rejoiced as his mind opened up in ways unimaginable. His mother, laughing and loving, doted over the baby Alex as if he were the only important thing in the entire world. His big brother bragged to all his friends about his baby brother.

  Searing heat and a brief explosion of pain ripped through him, but it vanished a moment after it began.

  In that flash, Alex's heart and mind knew only the miracle of joy, only the light and warmth that remained. A gentle presence assured him everything would be okay. He didn't understand, but he knew he was home.

  Where are we going, Mommy?

  ***

  "Fuck!" Mitchell's anger rocketed. "Don't die on me, you little shit!"

  He'd botched it. Where were the torture, agony and misery? He'd thrust the knife in too deeply and in the wrong location. The boy had died instantly—no wild screams, no painful grimaces, nothing!

  "Fuck a rubber duck, what have I done?"

  He puckered in fear and awaited the wrath of the demon.

  In that instant, the old Mitchell Norton returned. He stood over the boy's blood-soaked body, clutched a blood-soaked knife, and imagined his own blood-soaked punishment.

  He sought desperately to make amends. Although the boy was dead, perhaps Mitchell could still please the demon with his next act. Then he could feed his new friend, the Beast.

  That might satisfy the Reaper.

  Chapter 21 – May 21, 1978: Reports, Rumors and Re-Enactments

  The chief pulled a photo of Alex Hooper from a file on the front passenger seat, and shuffled around back to grab hip-waders and rubber gloves from the trunk of the cruiser. His "witness" could barely catch his breath as he introduced himself.

  Lou Pratt led him down a path toward the river, explaining as they walked the events that had transpired. When he came to the part about spotting the boy, he stopped and turned. "God in Heaven, Chief, it's sure an awful sight."

  Usually is, the chief thought, and nodded as they continued down the path to the small tributary. The smell of fresh vomit assaulted him, and he spotted the unpleasant source. Lou walked past it without a glance or a word, probably embarrassed by it.

  No need, Chief Radlon thought. Nothing wrong with being human during—especially during—inhuman events.

  Lou stopped before the water's edge and pointed toward the spot.

  The chief looked but couldn't see anything through the sunlight reflecting off the surface. He squinted, focused, concentrated on the shallow depths....

  The body came into view.

  Doc Wenthal called out at that precise instant, and startled him such that he nearly jumped out of his shoes. He took minor satisfaction in noting that Lou had also leapt at the intrusion; at least he wasn't the only one on a razor's edge. He was supposed to be the professional, however.

  He called back and waited a few seconds until the doctor arrived. "Over here, Doc." His eyes never left the submerged body.

  Doc slid by Lou with a polite nod and stood next to the chief. "What do we have, Bill?" He strained his eyes to see through the glare and into the water.

  Chief Radlon pointed to the spot. "Take a look."

  "Dear God, he was only a child."

  The chief grabbed a nearby stick and used it to scare away the fish that picked at the body. When he turned back, Lou looked blue around the gills too. He hoped the poor guy wasn't about to pass out. He had enough to deal with.

  He slid into his hip-waders and put on the rubber gloves before entering the water. Lou clutched his stomach again, as if he would puke at any moment, but his eyes never wavered. It always happened that way; people were drawn to the most gruesome sights.

  "Careful, Bill," Doc said. "We don't want to upset any evidence that might be found, so be gentle when moving it to the shore."

  The chief nodded reflexively and bent over the body, which he noted might have remained undiscovered were the water deeper. He looked at it for several seconds, gathered his will, and grasped the small corpse under the arms to drag it carefully to the shore.

  "Sonuvabitch!"

  Lou and Doc soon understood the reason for his anger. They grimaced as the corpse's arms—severed at the elbows—bobbed like buoys in the muck. Bill struggled to carry it through the thick mud, and finally managed to lift the body onto dry ground.

  "Ah shit."

  The boy's legs, severed two inches above the knees, trailed skin and tissue. His left eye was gone, a deep gouge left in its place. Muscle and bone peeked from holes in the skin. The chief noticed, despite his wish never to look upon this body again, that the one remaining eye, though filmed over, appeared oddly content. Perhaps his imagination worked on him, a kind of wishful thinking.

  He prayed the boy hadn't been required to endure the damage inflicted upon him.

  Doc put on latex gloves and knelt over the body. A full examination would wait until the victim was in the morgue, but the mutilations clearly intrigued Doc. He ran his hand over the end of one of the severed legs, and sighed. He looked up and shook his head.

  The chief understood. The fish in the Fox River could not do that to a body—not in twenty-four hours. Some rotten bastard had chopped off the boy's limbs.

  Difficult days lay ahead for his sleepy little town.

  Lou watched with ashen face and hugged himself, shaking noticeably. The chief regretted allowing the man to observe this. Civilians were not so immune to such horror.

  "Did somebody do that to the boy? Did a person cut him into pieces?" Lou fidgeted and nearly hopped. "Dear God, that's what happened, isn't it?"

  "Now listen, Mr. Pratt," the chief said, "I don't want the whole town in a panic over something we don't yet know enough about. We need time to get this investigation moving, and to examine the forensic evidence, before we jump to any conclusions. In the meantime, I'll ask you say nothing about this to anyone. Do you understand?"

  Lou hung his head in sorrow and whispered, "Yes, I understand. But this is Algonquin, for God's sake, not Chicago. This sort of thing isn't supposed to happen here."

  The chief ignored him and pulled the picture from his shirt pocket. He studied it for a few seconds and compared it to the mutilated corpse.

  "Damn it."

  Chapter 22 – May 21, 1978: Tony H
ooper

  Dad pulled me from a sleep filled with dreams of Alex, which included several appearances by Mom. I'd been out for hours.

  "Tony, Chief of Police Bill Radlon is here and he needs to speak with us."

  I emerged from my room in a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, with hair that announced my many hours in bed. The chief glared at Dad, uncomfortable with my presence. He hadn't come to speak with me, but Dad couldn't face this alone.

  The chief declined the offer of coffee, which we now lived on, and Dad poured himself another big cup. I filled one for myself as I struggled to come awake.

  Tensions ran high, as if a giant vacuum had sucked the air from the room. The three of us sat around the kitchen table and stared at one another for several seconds.

  Dad cleared his throat. "So, Chief, I hope you have some good news for us."

  You must be kidding me. You're smiling? Are you blind to the look in the chief's eyes? How deep is your denial?

  "Mr. Hooper, I wonder if we might speak alone."

  God, there it is.

  There could no longer be any doubt. Alex, the boy who'd been my Shadow, was gone. How would I survive without my Shadow?

  Dad, with eyes that betrayed his devastating heartbreak, had reached the same conclusion. He stammered, "That won't be necessary, Chief. Tony should be here for this."

  After a few seconds of silence and a grimace of indecision, the chief resolved to finish with it.

  "Very well, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but we've found Alex's body. I'm afraid he's been killed."

  He wore the most curious expression, taken aback by our reactions.

  One might easily have thought things were backwards between Dad and me, as he slumped over the table, rested his head on his arms, and sobbed uncontrollably. The chief cast his eyes down at first, unsurprised by Dad's expression of utter grief, but he now looked at me with what I could only assume was curiosity.

  I'd hardly responded to his announcement because, deep in my heart, I already knew. This was not news, and I'd already cried.

  I had no more tears to offer.

  Dad's breakdown continued, and my sorrow for him was complete. Yet I felt more: pity, I thought. Strange that I should pity him. After all, didn't I suffer too? I walked over and held him as he sobbed. The chief observed again, perhaps thinking it odd that I should console my father, versus the other way around. He didn't know Dad.

  The tears slowed to a drip as Dad raised his head and stared at the wall with blank eyes.

  I stood and looked at the chief. "You said Alex was killed. In an accident? Or by someone?"

  He looked back and forth between us, and resigned himself to the idea that I'd be doing most of the talking.

  "He was murdered and...."

  "And what?"

  "And his body was dumped in the river."

  "I see. Any ideas about who did it?"

  A strange look again contorted his face, as if he silently demanded answers from me. They weren't so hard to read. How can you be so casual? How can you be so cold? Do you have no heart? We're talking about your little brother here!

  "No," he said. "We found him only a short while ago. Our investigation will take some time. We won't have the coroner's report for a day or two."

  Dad flinched at mention of the coroner, and I placed my hand on his shoulder. He came only partially out of his mist, and returned to the discussion. "We'll have to make arrangements. Where do we go from here?"

  "Once the coroner finishes with her findings, you may claim the body."

  Dad jerked under another spasm—the body, rather than, Alex.

  "First things first," Chief Radlon said. "We'll need you to come to the morgue to identify the body—a formality, but a necessary one."

  When Dad failed to reply, the chief turned to me.

  I nodded. "I'll take care of that. When do we do it?"

  He was no longer surprised. Dad clearly couldn't handle it.

  He said he'd pick me up at nine o'clock the next morning, Monday. He'd drive me to the morgue, where I'd do what I already dreaded, and then he'd bring me back home. I agreed to all that as I escorted him out.

  I returned to the kitchen. "Dad?"

  "I want to be alone for a while, Tony."

  "Okay."

  I drifted into my room and lay down, and the floodgates opened again. I still had tears, after all.

  Chapter 23 – May 22, 1978: Tony Hooper

  We entered the McHenry County complex, located off Highway 47 in Woodstock, and awaited an elevator in the lobby of the coroner's facility. Chief Radlon stood beside me and glanced over several times. I couldn't help but think the chief, offering the same gaze he'd worn a couple times the night before, suspected me of the unthinkable.

  I squirmed and scratched the back of my neck, as if something were crawling up it.

  I thought about coming right out and asking him, but this damn place was hard enough. And likely to get harder. Soon.

  The elevator bell rang and the doors opened. Relief, anxiety, uncertainty, fear and dread—they formed a toxic soup on which I nearly choked.

  The chief held out his hand and said, "After you."

  We rode the elevator down in silence, but my heart thumped like a jackhammer in my chest, threatening to explode at any moment. I wiped a sleeve across my temples and forehead, where sweat dripped down and stung my eyes. I wanted to tell Chief Radlon this was a terrible mistake, that Dad should be doing this. I couldn't—

  The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. I stepped through and halted, glancing up and down the hallway. Nowhere to escape.

  The chief tapped my shoulder and said, "Right this way."

  My chest tightened further as we approached two sliding glass doors, the bold letters "MORGUE" stenciled on the outside.

  He put a hand out to stop me. "Listen, Tony, I'd say this is a simple exercise we're about to go through, except that I know how difficult it can be."

  All I could think to do was nod in response.

  "All we need," he said, "is for you to make an official identification, and then we can leave. If you want more time in there, that's fine. You just let me know. However, you shouldn't draw it out." He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and sighed. "You should remember Alex as he was during your best times together. Not like this. Let's go in, get it done, and get out. Okay?"

  I squeaked, "Okay," and the sound of it took my mind right to Alvin and the Chipmunks for some damned reason. I almost laughed, and I might have done so had I not been on the verge of tears, more frightened than I'd ever been.

  The chief opened the door, and I gasped at the smell. The room reeked of that hospital antiseptic quality, and something more—deeper, fouler. I could think of little to which it compared: the Fox River on a particularly bad day, perhaps. Although I'd once touched Mom's corpse, I'd never smelled death.

  The room contained two tables, each holding a body covered by a dark plastic sheet. The coroner sat at a desk at the edge of the room, and I had to do a double-take. Coroners should be fat old men with rumpled hair and heavy glasses, who removed organs with one hand while eating a tuna fish sandwich with the other. She was blonde, probably in her thirties, with great legs—just plain hot. A poor fit for the stereotype.

  She stood and walked toward us.

  "Dr. Singer," the chief said, "this is Tony Hooper. He's here to identify the boy we brought in."

  She nodded and offered a polite smile. "Mr. Hooper, Chief Radlon."

  She looked taken aback, undoubtedly surprised by my age. Not for the first time, I wished Dad had possessed the character to meet this responsibility.

  "It's right over here," she said.

  It's! It! You're calling Alex "it?"

  My anger, or sorrow, or incredulity—or whatever the hell it was—must have been evident. The doctor's shoulders sagged as she sighed and averted her eyes.

  Good! You should be uncomfortable, calling Alex "it."

  She moti
oned to the chief, and led us to the examination table where a corpse lay under a black plastic shroud.

  Oh God. That's Alex.

  She guided me to the side near one end, and waited for the chief to situate himself at the head of the table.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I know this is difficult. Are you prepared?"

  Unable to speak, or to find oxygen in this lifeless place, I nodded.

  The doctor folded the sheet back to expose Alex's head and a few inches of his chest. I didn't move. I barely breathed. His face, grim and stiff, looked as though he'd fallen into a vat of flour. One of his eyes, though closed, appeared terribly disfigured.

  I stared for several seconds, frozen, trying not to shiver beneath the goosebumps that erupted all over my body, trying to quell the shaking in my hands, the quivering in my lips, the churning in my gut.

  Chief Radlon broke the silence. "Can you identify him for us?"

  Once again, I nodded. I started to say something, but managed only a grunt, my words choked off by something huge and unknown in my throat. It could have been a rhinoceros.

  He pressed me quietly. "Is that Alex?"

  My vision blurred beneath pools of silent tears, and I nodded. Both the chief and Dr. Singer diverted their eyes at that awkward moment. I made them uncomfortable. Hell, I made myself uncomfortable.

  I whispered, "Goodbye Hoopster," and reached under the sheet to hold Alex's hand for a minute, to touch my baby brother one last time.

  Where's his hand? I pulled back the sheet to find it and— "No! No! My God, what did you do to him? No!"

  "Tony, wait," Dr. Singer said. "We didn't do that to Alex. That's how Chief Radlon found him."

  What? Someone chopped him up? Oh God, why? Alex! Oh Alex, what have I done? I'm so sorry. Alex. Alex.

  The room spun and everything faded to gray. I tried to fight off whatever attacked me—like a thousand blowtorches—and stumbled backwards into the cold steel vaults. My legs buckled and I collapsed to the frigid floor, propping myself up with trembling hands, shivering and gasping, unable to breathe. The gray faded darker.