Down the Darkest Street

by Alex Segura

  “These sound similar,” Pete said, still rifling through the clippings, each one clocking in at about four printed pages—a front section story and a lengthy jump, unheard of now. “But they’re from twenty years ago.”

  “Except this one,” Emily said, pulling a page out of her smaller stack. She handed it to Pete.

  Pete scanned the single sheet. The byline was a name he didn’t recognize: Alexia Sanchez. The turnover at The Times was frequent and usually involved interns and temps taking on full-time jobs for less money. The story, unlike the pages from the 1980s, was brief and limited to the front page of the local section. The headline was short, befitting a story buried on the lower right of the page. With only a small mugshot for art, the story was lucky it made the front at all. “Miami High student missing after shopping trip.” It was light on details, but did include a call out to The Miami Times website “for more information, as it happens.” Pete let out a sigh.

  “This one’s from a few days ago,” Pete said. “But kids go missing all the time. It doesn’t automatically mean they’re connected.”

  “Fair enough,” Kathy said. “But did you read the story?”

  He hadn’t. The piece was poorly edited. Pete fought the urge to pull out a pen, as he had so many times during his stint at The Times, and make corrections.

  “The best details are lost in the story,” Pete said, more to himself than to Kathy or Emily. “‘Morales, seventeen, a senior at Miami Senior High School, was last seen talking to a white male in his thirties in the Dadeland parking lot, adjacent to Macy’s off N. Kendall Drive. The man was driving a white van of unspecified make and model.’ Why is that in the last paragraph?”

  “That’s not the point,” Emily said. She’d been looking over Pete’s stack of clippings while he read the story. “The kids and women in these stories were also last seen talking to a dude driving a van.”

  “Right, but that was twenty years ago,” Pete said. He was confused. He looked at Kathy. She didn’t seem confused at all. “What’s the deal?”

  “You’re a bad Miamian,” Kathy said. “You’re really still drawing a blank?”

  Pete hated guessing games. Especially when they involved people’s lives.

  “Just spit it out,” Pete said.

  Kathy collected her printouts and shoved them back into her purse before taking out a black folder. She opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to Pete.

  “Rex Whitehurst,” Kathy said. “Does the name ring a bell?”

  “Not really,” Emily said.

  “Pete?”

  He looked over the printout, a quick bio of Whitehurst. It was incomplete, as if someone had been in a hurry and had only printed a few pages. But the basic information was there. Whitehurst had killed a dozen women—ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-seven—in the early 1980s, ending his string of murders in Miami, where he ruthlessly killed three girls in a manic spree that led to his capture. Whitehurst was a stabber—and known for leaving his victims in elaborate, sexualized poses.

  “So, this is our dude, then?” Pete said, regretting it after the words left his lips.

  Kathy snatched the paper back and slipped it into the black folder.

  “That’s the problem,” she said.

  “I’m confused,” Emily said. “How is this possible? Did this guy somehow escape?”

  “No, dear,” Kathy said. “This is a much bigger problem.”

  “Why?” Pete said.

  “Rex Whitehurst has been dead for over two decades,” Kathy said, her voice emphasizing the last few words. “He was put down via Old Sparky in 1994. Rex is dead and someone is killing women in a sick, twisted homage to him.”

  “You know you have a permanent piece

  Of my medium-sized, American heart.”

  —The National, “Looking for Astronauts”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The bitter coffee burned Pete’s tongue as he sipped it. He hated this part of AA. The socializing. The exchanging of numbers. The questions, like “How’s your day been?” or “How are you holding up?” It drove Pete up the wall. He didn’t know how he was holding up. He wanted a drink most of the time.

  He’d slid over by the coffee pot, where he figured he could finish his cup of tar, do his time, and sneak out with little fanfare. That was the plan, at least.

  “Hey, Pete, how goes it?” It was Jack. Again.

  “Not bad,” Pete said, sipping the still-hot and still-nasty coffee faster. Plan foiled.

  “Meant to tell you this last week,” Jack said. “But you seemed a little ruffled when I mentioned the book. Hope I didn’t offend you.”

  Pete stiffened for an awkward exchange.

  Jack cleared his throat. “I knew your dad,” Jack said. “I was a beat cop—Miami Dade PD. Your dad… He was one of the good ones. Great detective. Smart man. Just an all around good guy. I think he’d be proud of you, seeing you right yourself like you’re doing.”

  Pete was caught off-guard. He’d been expecting some new age AA babble, or a passive-aggressive guilt trip about how Jack “hadn’t seen him around.” Not the memory of his father. It felt weird—like his dad was in the room with him, noticing him for what he was. He stammered a bit before responding.

  “Well, uh, thanks. Thank you, Jack,” Pete said. “Not sure if you’re on the money there, but I appreciate it. My dad was a good man.”

  Jack poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “You been keeping up with the news?”

  Pete tossed his cup into the nearby trash bin.

  “Sure.”

  “People are talking about that dead girl,” Jack said, sipping his coffee with none of Pete’s hesitation. “Some of my old buddies on the force say the brass is freaking out.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Lots of reasons,” Jack said. “Smells of a serial, first of all. Especially with that other girl missing.”

  “What other girl?”

  Jack seemed surprised.

  “Morales,” Jack said.

  Pete nodded and grabbed another empty cup. The church basement had cleared out by now, with the exception of a few stragglers helping put stuff away.

  “Yeah, I read the story,” Pete said, pouring himself another half cup for lack of anything else to do. “But what’s that got to do with a serial killer?”

  “You’re cagey,” Jack said, laughing. “I’m not trying to grill you, man. I’m trying to talk shop a bit. You’re the closest thing to a cop in this room, and I get nostalgic for the water cooler talk in my old age. Beats going down to John Martin’s and knocking back a dozen Guinness.”

  “That’s fair, sorry,” Pete said. “I’m just paranoid by nature. Been a nutty year or so.”

  He was wary of Jack. Of all the people he’d met in the rooms Jack was the most persistent. And now he kept bringing things back to the murders. Was he looking to talk shop, or was there more to it? Was Pete just being paranoid? He wasn’t sure yet.

  Jack gave Pete an apologetic smile.

  “The name Rex Whitehurst mean anything to you?” Jack said.

  “A bit,” Pete said. “Been reading up on him lately, actually.”

  “What they did to that Cline girl,” Jack said, pausing for a beat. “That’s Whitehurst. ’Cept it can’t be. He’s been dead for about a decade.”

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “But he’s not the only person to ever slice people up.”

  “Fair enough,” Jack said. “But I was there when Rex came to town. I remember what he did to those girls, and what he was like. It wasn’t just about posing a girl in a sexy way, like a porno. He posed them in a way that said ‘I did this. I won.’ When we brought him in, he was talking nonsense—about a dark age that would last thousands of years, and how he needed to stop it. Crazy shit. But this is a mirror image of his work. If I hadn’t known people who saw him get fried, I’d think he was back at it somehow.”

  “I was young,” Pete said. “But I remember bits an
d pieces. The press was all over it. It wasn’t ‘Summer of Sam’ crazy, but everyone in the city was looking for that guy. Surprised he was on the run as long as he was.”

  The room was empty now, and Pete wondered how much time they had to shoot the shit before someone semiofficial came to usher them out.

  “He was smart,” Jack said. “But he was crazy. In custody he kept going on about the collapse of society. He’d rationalized it to himself in his mind. He’d started off molesting kids at the school he worked at, up in New York. Then he went too far and killed one, went on the run. Think he had over a dozen or so bodies under his belt by the time we got him.”

  “You think we have a copycat?” Pete asked.

  “I dunno,” Jack said. “Could be a one-off, could be more than that. Sure seems like an homage, at the very least. What’d that girl ever do to anyone except break a few hearts?”

  “What do you mean? I’m not following you.”

  “She’s pretty, is all,” Jack said, giving Pete a confused look. “Or was.”

  “Yeah,” Pete said. The comment struck him as odd but he let it go. “It’s a tragedy.”

  Jack nodded and started to head for the door. “Well, I gotta get home,” Jack said. “Mona’s gonna cook up her usual and I have to sit down and pretend to love it. Marriage, huh?”

  Pete waved as Jack walked out. He felt on edge. He needed to do something. But what was he already doing? He was researching Rex Whitehurst, talking to the people around Alice, and trying to figure out who was behind her death. He knew this feeling. It had paid off when he found Kathy, he thought, but it’d also cost him the life of a close friend and two others. He didn’t want to put anyone at risk again. But did he have faith in the Miami police to do anything?

  He made it to his car and grabbed his worn-out leather carrying case. Inside it, Pete had been collecting documents for his ad hoc research. Copies of the clippings Kathy had found, a few other printouts Pete had made the night before, and a legal pad with some scribbled notes. He sat in the driver’s seat and tried to focus. He’d settled back into the routine of a reporter with little rust or hesitation—research and all. He still found the library visits tedious, but even that was almost bearable.

  Still, there was something about the information that wasn’t gelling, and something that Kathy had said that was buzzing around his brain—ever-present, but impossible to pin down. Why was she surprised about Pete not recognizing Rex’s MO? He pulled out one of the newspaper clippings, this one from 1984. The headline read “Boca girl, 13, still missing.” The subhead gave a bit more information above the Chaz Bentley byline: “Approached by white male driving nondescript van.” A van. Surely that wasn’t unique amongst killers, or anywhere, Pete thought. But the information stuck with him.

  He felt the pieces begin to click into place in his brain. But instead of relief, his body was shrouded by a deep, creeping fear.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He bit into the small red apple. He chewed and watched as Fernandez pulled his car out of the St. Brendan’s church parking lot. Fernandez wasn’t a fool, Julian thought. He’d notice if he was being followed. He let it drop.

  He hadn’t expected the remains of the first girl to wash up so soon. Bagging her like that had been a mistake. A subconscious ploy to get attention. He should have just buried her with the rest of them. But the only way to build toward the powerful moment he needed was with more. The clarity he gained through these ceremonies let him see what was next.

  He waited a few more minutes and pulled his tiny Dodge Neon out of the parking lot and headed toward the expressway. This was his second vehicle. The “day-to-day” car. It stuck out less than the van. His hands itched under the leather gloves he was wearing. His eyes on the road, he slid his right hand into the grocery bag on the passenger side. He pulled out a cell phone.

  “Hello?” the Messenger said. He sounded tired.

  “I have a problem,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “The detective’s son. He’s bothering me,” he said, both hands on the wheel, the flimsy temporary cell phone cradled on his shoulder.

  “You have bigger things to worry about,” the Messenger said. “You were sloppy. You should have stuck to the plan.”

  “There is no plan,” Julian said. “I honor the Voice, I don’t copy it. Now, tell me you’ll handle this new annoyance.”

  “I’ll handle him,” the Messenger said after a few seconds. “Just lay low for a bit. We need more time.”

  “Time is relative,” he said. “It’s only through actions like this that I can open my eyes and see what’s coming.”

  “You need to slow down.”

  “It is not an option. Fix the problem or I will,” he said, his terse, whispery tone the only signal that he was upset.

  “Wait—”

  Julian lowered the driver’s side window and tossed the phone out. He saw it rattle down the street and disappear under a car in the carpool lane. He looked up at the rearview mirror and smiled. The girl was still squirming, her body laid flat on the backseat, her eyes blindfolded and her hands and feet bound by twine. She whimpered. He held his breath. She’d pissed herself. He could hear her sobbing, unable to lift her face up.

  “What a mess you’ve made.”

  He lowered the window, letting the Miami breeze hit his face as he pulled onto the expressway.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Light flooded The Bar as Pete shoved the door open. He walked up to the counter. The bar was dark and humid. The jukebox was playing Mission of Burma—the cascading guitar held down by the train-like drums. The music was turned low, probably under the control of the staff and a brief respite from the pop and dance music most late-night patrons were fond of. Pete fought the urge to scan the liquor bottles lining the area behind and above the bar register. The Bar was empty aside from Lisa. Her eyes met his and she nodded. She didn’t seem happy.

  He sat down at the bar and pulled out the picture of Mike. The quick jolt of pain hit him. It happened each time he did this. It was becoming a weekly ritual. The jolt came first, then spread until it formed a general ache that he felt he’d never be rid of.

  Lisa set the pint of amber beer in front of Pete, not bothering to stop for small talk as she sometimes did. Pete was OK with that. The noise from the local news—it was close to six in the evening—filled the empty bar. It’d probably start to get crowded around seven, when the two-for-one happy hour made it worth anyone’s time. Otherwise, it was just another expensive, faux-authentic bar in the Gables, except without waitresses or live music. A few notches above the pub, but still a dive and seeming more out of place amongst the gourmet restaurants, wine bars, and cocktail lounges that were taking up more and more space.

  Pete thought back to almost a year ago. The day the bomb went off and killed his best friend. He had just found Kathy, tied up and trapped by a madman in the Keys. They’d come to Fort Lauderdale to hole up at Mike’s apartment until they could figure out what to do next. Pete didn’t even stop to consider that by coming to Mike, he’d brought the danger along with him and put his best friend at risk. The bomb, which had been meant for Pete, destroyed Mike, his car, and any chance Pete had of returning to a normal life.

  Pete stopped himself from reaching out to the glass and taking a sip; his instinct was still strong, but he had to resist. Old habits die hard, and coming here—tempting himself—didn’t help. But the torture of the act was a small fee, he thought, for the guilt he felt. He noticed Lisa watching him. She looked away, embarrassed.

  “I knew you weren’t a cheerful guy, but this is straight up torture, dude.”

  Pete turned around. Dave took the stool to Pete’s left, skipping pleasantries. He waved Lisa over and waited for her to come up to the bar.

  Pete took a second to compose himself.

  “Hey,” Pete said. “Sorry, this isn’t, it’s—”

  “You haven’t touched that beer,” Dave said, “so I’m guessin
g you’re not going to. Am I supposed to think this is admirable somehow? This weird self-torture?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dave motioned to the unsipped Bass ale.

  “This,” Dave said. “This weird ritual. That’s your friend, right? Mike? The dead one?”

  Pete grabbed Mike’s photo and slid it into his pocket.

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “I was…I just took it out for second.”

  Lisa approached the bar and leaned over to Dave.

  “He does this every week,” she said, both annoyance and sympathy in her voice. “It’s weird. What are you having?”

  “It is weird,” Dave said. “I’ll take a Boddingtons.” He turned to Pete. “So, seriously—this is what you do when you’re not at work or at home? You sit in a bar and feel bad for yourself?”

  “I’m not feeling sorry for myself,” Pete said.

  “Dude, I’ve worked with you for a few months now,” Dave said, grabbing the beer as Lisa placed it in front of him and taking a long pull. “You’re either at the store, reading for hours and not really doing the job I’m sort of paying you for, or you’re at home, living with your smoking hot ex, and not making a move on her. Then I find you here—a guy who doesn’t drink—sitting in a bar, looking at a photo of your dead friend with a fucking full pint in front of you. If you’re not feeling sorry for yourself, what are you doing? Because you definitely aren’t having fun. Look at you.”

  Pete let out a quick laugh.

  “You’re not responding because you’re either going to punch me, which I don’t suggest if you still want to hold on to your job, or because I’m right,” Dave said. “And I know I’m fucking right.” He downed his heavy British ale in a few large gulps. Still swallowing, he motioned for Pete to pass his own untouched beer over. Pete complied.