Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy

by R. E. Schobernd

  Clay drove out to the park where he had been jogging all week to make another circuit on the jogging trails, running the same route his prey had consistently followed. He was looking for blind spots on the trail where he and Cooter would be out of the sight of others. He also looked for areas off the trail where the brush was thick enough to conceal a body, at least long enough for him to make his escape. Most of the trees and bushes were deciduous and had lost their leaves for the winter. However, several areas were planted with pine trees and cedar shrubs and could provide the needed cover.

  After breakfast on Sunday morning he made another trip to the park to check his initial observations and finalize the details of his developing plan. Leaving the park, he drove back to his motel to change out of the jogging suit into a shirt, slacks and jacket. His next stop was two blocks from the Memphis bus station where he parked his car at a mini mall, and walked to the station carrying a small overnight bag. The departure schedule showed a bus would travel south into Mississippi, making stops at many small towns and medium sized cities. It was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. After paying cash for a ticket he boarded the bus and settled in to read the Sunday paper he had purchased outside the bus station. Three hours into the ride the bus pulled into a town which appeared larger than most of the others they had traveled through. Clay left the bus, exited the station and found himself on a four lane street in the business section of the city. One lone taxi cab was parked at the curb down the street from the bus station entrance. The cabby dropped him off at a motel matching his requirements; near a decent restaurant and within walking distance of the town’s only shopping mall. The time was approaching five o’clock as he walked through the front entrance of the motel, picked up a map of the city and asked for directions. Having gotten everything he needed there, he walked out one of the side exits and made his way to a locally owned restaurant for supper.

  By the time he had finished his third cup of coffee after dinner, the temperature had dropped ten degrees and the darkness of early winter had descended on the small southern city. Clay paid his dinner check and walked the block and a half to the nearby shopping mall parking lot. On a Sunday evening there were less than a hundred cars on the lot. The lack of customers made it easier to see where the mall employee’s cars were grouped in sections farthest away from the mall entrance. Glancing around the area Clay looked for police cars, mall security and cameras mounted on the light poles. Not seeing anything to alarm him, he selected a four door Oldsmobile 88 sedan. The car was a common model in a popular shade of dark red, he judged it was about four or five years old. While walking to the car he removed a pair of brown jersey gloves from his pocket and put them on. Opening the overnight bag, he removed a long slender piece of metal flat bar, slipped it between the driver's window glass and the rubber seal and lifted the door latch knob. After looking around again, he sat in the driver’s seat, took another tool from the bag and removed the ignition lock from the steering column. Connecting the wires together and starting the engine was a simple task. When he was off the parking lot he followed the directions given to him earlier at the motel, to the cities largest hospital. Visiting hours were still in effect, and the visitor’s parking lots were full. He found a spot in the back of one of the lots and backed into a dimly lighted spot between two other cars. Removing a stolen set of Indiana license plates and multi tip screwdriver from the bag he changed both plates. Now he was ready for the drive back to Memphis.

  Monday morning he drove to a side street on Harold Holland’s usual route to the park instead of following him from the house. The sky was overcast and the temperature had dropped into the upper forties. He was apprehensive as to whether Cooter would come out in the damp dreary weather, or choose instead to lie at home on the couch. He sat in the stolen car drinking strong but barely warm coffee. Finally, Cooter drove past and he pulled out behind him, thankful Cooter was a creature of habit.

  At the park Cooter went to his usual parking spot. Only two other cars were parked in the lot for the running trail. Over at the approach path to the trail he began stretching exercises while walking down the black topped path.

  Clay had worn a sweat suit that Cooter hadn’t seen him in previously, with the hood up to cover his head. He was again wearing the brown cloth gloves. A .38 caliber Smith and Wesson Model 52 automatic with a silencer attached was on the left inside his sweat jacket secured with Velcro. The brass knuckle was in his left jacket pocket. The victim began to quicken his pace, walking briskly into a lightly wooded section of the trail. Clay finished his leg stretching exercises as Cooter disappeared around the first turn. Checking the parking lot, he noted no one had arrived since he had parked. He started a slow jog behind Cooter holding his head down to avoid showing his full facial features to passersby. The two joggers neared a section more densely wooded, where the trail had large rises and dips. Ahead of them, a woman jogger approached from the other direction. She had passed by the first jogger, and as she neared Clay he turned his face down and away from her, focusing his eyes on the ground to his right as he continued his pursuit. Cooter Holland was still jogging slowly, as if he were struggling to maintain the effort to continue his exercise. When the joggers reached a point almost half way into the denser section of the woods, a light mist of rain began to fall. Clay quickened his pace and closed the fifteen yards between them with little effort. Cooter had increase his sped to a fast jog. Clay was timing his approach to match their arrival at the top of a rise where the trail turned to the left. After glancing behind and not seeing another runner, he decided to execute the plan. Starting a faster run he was within ten feet of his victim within seconds and had to slow down to adjust his timing.

  Hearing someone approaching, Cooter glanced over his left shoulder and hugged the right side of the trail, giving the person behind him ample room to pass.

  As Cooter entered the left turn, Clay looked ahead as far as he could see and closed the final distance. Just before a break in the cedar bushes lining the right side of the trail he came up behind and to the left of the lead man. His left hand, clutching the brass knuckle firmly in its palm came out of the pocket, swung in a fast arc, and landed at the side of Cooter’s head in the left temple area.

  Cooter had begun to turn his head to the left, being curious as to why the person behind him was not passing. The runner he heard was obviously faster than he was, so what was taking so long? When the metal knuckle connected with the older man’s head, he staggered and nearly fell.

  While pushing Cooter toward the space between the bushes Clay got his feet tangled with the injured man, fell through the space and rolled ten feet down the gentle embankment with his victim. Both men ended up below the trail between the branches of mature pine trees and cedar bushes.

  Cooter was lying on his back, shaking his head slowly from side to side, blinking his eyes and moaning softly. His glasses had been knocked loose from his face and he was peering to see who had attacked him.

  Clay was clear headed, but had his legs entwined with the other man. Getting free of his victim, he got onto his knees and leaned over the other man on his outstretched right arm. The brass knuckle was still in his left hand and he swung it three times, each hit slamming into Cooter’s forehead.

  Cooter grunted with each impact and after the third hammer like blow, stopped trying to lift his head, raised his hands to his face and began a low whining sound. Blood had started to run off each side of his forehead as well as down into his eyes as he looked up at his assailant and recognized him from the shopping mall. Their faces were only two feet away from each other and Cooter saw the look of disgust and loathing in his assailant’s eyes. He was confused, trying to connect the incident in the mall with what was now happening. The police aren’t allowed to attack people; what the hell is happening. Cooter continued to stare and whine, his body trembling, waiting for what he feared was to come.

  Rising to his feet Clay put the blood covered brass knuckle back in his left pocket w
hile removing the pistol from inside his jacket.

  Cooter saw the pistol and began to moan louder. He raised both hands to cover his face, raised his knees to a fetal position while shaking uncontrollably, curled up, and began to rock back and forth, while chanting “No, no, no, no.”

  Clay pointed the gun and fired two bullets into his victim’s chest. The man gasp and his body quivered. Then the body relaxed and his chest deflated with a slow final exhale of breath. Both arms dropped to his sides and both legs relaxed, feet on the ground, with knees rolled to the right. The man’s mouth remained open and his eyes stared blank and unfocused at the overcast sky above the woods. Clay placed the silencer twelve inches from the man’s head and fired two more bullets into the top of Cooter’s forehead, two inches apart and one inch below the hairline. Removing Cooter’s billfold from the back pocket, he withdrew the cash and threw the billfold under the boughs of a large pine tree on the downhill side of the sloping bank. A cheap wrist watch was removed from the dead mans left arm and placed in Clay’s trouser pocket. The body was rolled and dragged down the slight slope while the pine branches were raised, and the body was maneuvered under the cover of the tree limbs. Crawling under the branches in the dry needles he wrapped the limp body around the trunk of the tree as best he could, where it would be out of sight. Backing out from under the tree he found Cooter’s glasses and threw it under the tree with the owner.

  He realized how ratty he looked when he surveyed his own appearance. His clothing was dirty and there were pine and cedar needles stuck to him. As he was brushing off as much of the debris from his clothing as was possible, he became aware the drizzle had increased to a steady light rain. Kicking leaves around, he obliterated the trail of blood leading toward the tree where the body lay. Walking along the embankment to another opening between the bushes, he edged up to the trail and peered out to look both ways. Not seeing anyone, he began a fast jog back to his car. Everyone else had left, or was leaving the park. The dead man’s car was the only one in sight besides his own. Reaching his car and grabbing the drivers door handle to open it, Clay exclaimed “Shit. The god damn thing’s locked”. In his haste and nervousness, he must have accidentally locked the doors. Fighting panic, he stood in the rain, which was had become a down pour, trying to decide what to do next. He had to get in the damn car. Moving around to the rear passenger door he reached into his left pocket and found the brass knuckle. He wanted to hit the glass hard enough to shatter it, but not so hard that his fist carried through the glass and cut his hand to shreds. On the third try the glass cracked. Clay looked around the park and spotted a three inch diameter tree limb lying on the ground twenty feet away.

  Thank God; the way things are going it’s a wonder the cleanup crew didn’t get pick it up, he muttered to himself. Taking the six foot long limb he used it to punch an opening through the broken rear side window, then threw it in the direction of the location where he found it. Reaching through the broken window, he unlocked the front passenger door, got in the car and slid across the seat to the driver’s side. The engine roared to life after he twisted the ignition wires together. Before putting the gearshift in reverse, he checked his pockets to assure himself he had the brass knuckle and his gun. Then his wet gloves shifted to lever to reverse, he backed up and proceeded to drive past the green Pontiac, setting alone in the parking lot in the driving rain.

  Clay drove to the area where he had left his own car and stopped behind a small shopping center to switch license plates, putting the original plates back on the Oldsmobile. He then parked the stolen car in a handicapped parking space at a small apartment complex. He figured someone would notice it quicker setting there and call the police to have it towed away. It should be cleaned up and back with its owner about the time the body in the park was found, lessening any connection between the two events. Leaving the stolen car he began the three block walk back to where he had parked his own car. The rain had stopped, and the temperature was in the lower fifties with an overcast sky. He was angry with himself because several things had gone wrong and he vowed he would not, could not let them happen again. The job had been a good learning experience, but could have had disastrous results. Back at his car he took an old blanket out of the trunk to cover the seat before getting in and drove back to his motel.

  Inside his room he removed his gloves, clothing, and shoes, placing them in a garbage bag along with the cover used on the car seat. After taking a long hot shower he rummaged through the drawers in the furniture until he located paper and a pen. Lying on the bed in his shorts and drinking a beer, he began to review his plan and the execution of it.

  He had been successful due to luck, not because of his proficiency and control. Starting at the beginning, he wrote down each step in detail on the left side of his paper. When the list was completed he again started at the top of the page on the right and made notes pertinent to each of the original items. When he had finished he reviewed each item and prioritized the five biggest mistakes he judged he had made.

  Getting entwined with his target and falling down the hill with him was his biggest concern; a stronger, more physically fit opponent may have gotten the upper hand to injure him, kill him, or summon help.

  Locking the door of the stolen car certainly had to be the second biggest bone headed act he had committed. If his escape had been urgent, he could have lost precious time and drawn attention in his efforts to get into the stolen car. Thank God it was raining hard enough to cause everyone else to leave the park.

  Using the brass knuckles was a mistake also. Getting close enough to use them gave the victim the opportunity to strike back if his attack did not cause significant damage. It isn’t about fair play he reminded himself, it’s about fast and efficient killing. The victim can’t be given any chance to survive, or even to create a struggle. He thought back several years to Jerry O’Neil. That was a good hit because the victim was caught like a rat in a trap. He had used the victims own habits to ambush him, much the same as the Memphis hit, but had remained at a distance. Out of reach of the victim and in full control; able to react if necessary to any actions on the part of his intended target; truly an important fact to remember.

  Stolen license plates would need to be procured from other areas, not just Chicago. If he continued to bring them on all jobs a pattern could possibly emerge in an investigation. Tying together the fact he had stolen several sets in and around Chicago could lead police to focus on his home base. He determined to steal a set before he left Memphis and to stop in St. Louis for another set.

  Two of the three running suits he had brought along were of a soft, fleecy type material. Debris from the trees and bushes in the park had embedded itself in the one he had worn for the hit. He had not planned to roll on the ground with his victim, and had missed thinking about moving the body under the overhanging tree branches. Trying to brush the needles and other debris off had been totally ineffective; even a fledgling or incompetent medical examiner could tie his clothing to the area where the hit had occurred. In the future any clothing items used on the actual hit would be of a slick finish material so it would not snag debris so easily.

  On a positive note, the overall plan had been good. The use of brown cloth gloves had worked. They were available everywhere, cheap, and could be disposed of without arousing suspicion. They could even be thrown in the corner of an alley and some less fortunate passersby would pick them up and carry them away.

  Going to another town to steal a car had worked well and he would make a mental note to use it again in the future. Using out of state license plates also seemed to be a good idea and he would continue doing it too. Also, there might be times when he would want to put stolen plates on his own car to disguise and hide its identity.

  Clay had skipped one item on his list and came back to review it. His involvement in stopping his target from leaving the shopping mall with the youngster was troubling him greatly. He couldn’t accept letting a young boy be attacked by the o
ld pedophile, but was concerned such action in the future could blow his cover. Drawing attention to himself was something he needed to avoid at all cost. While he was mentally picturing the boy in the mall, a thought of Tommy being in the hands of a pervert like Cooter entered his thoughts. There was no way in hell he would ever let that happen to Tommy or any other innocent child. Also, if Cooter had committed another crime in his home area the police would have turned to him as a prime suspect, and may have arrested him immediately for interrogation. Then the man would have been out of Clay’s reach. Once again he would have had the opportunity to escape punishment, or at worst be confined for some period. Clay’s contract called for death, not confinement.

  While walking from the bed to the bathroom, he tore the paper into small pieces and then flushed them all down the toilet. Lying back down on the bed he opened a beer, turned on the television and continued to think about events of the last week. When he had returned to the motel room he had counted the money he removed from Cooter Holland’s billfold. Twenty seven dollars. The man didn’t have a job and lived on what he could sponge off of his mother. Her house, her car, her food, her meager amount of money. I bet she sure was proud of the slimy bastard, Clay mused to himself. And then he had a sobering thought: about as proud as my mom would be if she knew what I just did.

  Downing the last swallow of beer from the bottle, he reached into a Styrofoam cooler beside the bed for another one. The comedy show playing on the television was about a bumbling detective who made error after error but always ended up being the hero. He thought about the similarity to his own situation, and vowed the type of errors he had committed would never happen again. He made a pledge to review his actions and grade himself after every job. Only then could he assure himself of improving his work skills; and of not being caught.