A Life of Death: Episodes 5 - 8

by Weston Kincade

  I had no bag. In fact, I hadn’t planned on leaving, but a glance at the flight schedule on the wall told me I had ten minutes to grab my briefcase from the car and make my flight to the capital. That might not be enough time. “Shit!”

  “Can I help you?” asked Larry from his counter.

  “Nah, just think I’m gonna miss my flight. Gotta hurry.”

  Larry nodded, and I turned toward the counter. “Yep, probably should.” His words echoed in the large corridor as though he’d shouted in Canterbury Cathedral. “You know, you really need to try and get here a couple hours before the flight—that way this doesn’t happen to you.”

  I stutter-stopped and spun back around. “Two hours! Whatever happened to one?”

  “Well, since 9/11, all the airports have beefed up security,” he said with a wave of his uniformed arm, as if the metal detector, screening machine, and the maze of retractable barriers were evidence of that fact. “You never know how long it will take to get through security. We’re usually much busier than this.”

  “I’m sure,” I replied, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. His bushy eyebrows scrunched together. Evidently I hadn’t restrained myself enough. Turning back toward the ticket booth, I dashed to get my ticket.

  I think he would have given me a cavity search when the metal detector went off on the way back through. I undoubtedly would have missed the flight had I not flashed my badge and given up my gun before rushing to the gate.

  “You’ll get it back when you arrive at your destination, Detective Drummond,” he assured me.

  Shaking my head, I ran to the gate and slipped into one of the last seats after spotting Miss Irene Harris Poppins sliding into a window seat a few rows up. I’d never been to DC before, but I had the feeling this trip was going to be memorable. At least I know someone there. Before the announcements came to turn off all electrical equipment, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Jessie:

  Gonna be in town in a couple hours. Pick me up?

  Thankfully, Jessie replied in seconds, Sure. Where?

  Will take Metro to Branch Av. Pick me up there.

  I knew it was out of his way, but that was the station nearest to Irene Harris’s new house. The phone beeped as I was shutting it down. I ignored it with a smile. Good ol’ Jessie. He’ll be there.

  Chapter Three

  A Capital Welcome

  September 14, 2011

  When we landed, I grabbed my briefcase and slipped out just as the stewardess opened the door. I tried to casually walk down the extended hallway, but wanted to be out of sight when Irene reached the gate. My heart thumped with the beat of my footsteps. I restrained myself, even though the adrenaline pumping through me was enough to outrun a surging freight train. Tracking someone while remaining hidden was something I’d honed over the years; it was a must in my profession, but the thrill had to be controlled to remain inconspicuous.

  I stepped off the platform, onto the solid floor of the airport, and scanned the terminal. Scooping a magazine off of one of the bolted rows of chairs, I sat down and immersed myself in its pages, glancing back at the gate with periodic interest. Irene exited, rolling her carry-on luggage behind her, the telltale squeak of the wheel announcing her. She walked with purpose, not stopping to window-shop or eat. When she’d passed one of the eateries a few shops down, I folded the magazine under my arm, gripped my briefcase, and strode after her.

  Thank the maker for uncomfortable women’s shoes. Although hers weren’t high heels, the height slowed her down and allowed me to stop by the customs office and pick up my gun. I would have lost her by the time they finally brought it if she’d been in sneakers and without the squeaky wheel. Irene would have blended in with the crowd like the rest of the unremarkable strangers in the large airport. It worked out this time. I would have to speak with Martinez back home before the return trip though.

  Unfortunately, the pedestrian traffic exiting Reagan National and entering the Metro station across the way was less accommodating. Mrs. Harris paused for a second to remove her Metro pass and then slipped through the turnstile to vanish into the mix of people heading below.

  “Shit!” I stepped up to the security booth, flashed my badge, and said, “I’ve gotta get through.

  One guard leaned closer, then crossed his arms. “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” Both men chuckled and shook their heads.

  Cursing them under my breath, I grabbed a handful of coins and sped to the pass dispenser. I deposited the bunch and scanned the machine. What pass do I need? How far is it? “Crap!” I took a deep breath. Remember, she’s heading to the Branch Avenue stop, I whispered silently. No worries. Just catch up before the Metro comes. Hitting the button, I snatched the day pass and followed down the escalator. Fortunately it seemed proper etiquette in DC for people to stand to the right, allowing those in a rush to pass by, using the escalators like accelerated stairs. After one changeover onto the green line, I spotted Irene in the dimly lit underground as she boarded a front car. My heart slowed its panicked beating as I stepped through the nearest entrance and took a seat for the remainder of the ride.

  Shifting in the uncomfortable seat, I pulled a file out of the briefcase and propped a foot on my knee as the Metro sped through the underground passage. Elongated, white lights flickered through the side windows as I flipped through the paper-clipped pages of a thick file. Gruesome pictures peered at me, accompanied by officer’s notes, witness statements, and coroner’s reports. Each victim was another knife sliding deep into my heart. I hadn’t been able to save them, but maybe I could find them justice.

  The tinny sound of someone’s headphones gave off a ricka—dum—chink over and over, echoing throughout the narrow cabin. A large woman in a black-and-white, floral-patterned dress came in at the next stop, directing her five children into the row of seats in front of me. The youngest two continued an argument from earlier in whispers across the aisle. The smallest, a dark-skinned boy with a crooked cap, pointed at his slightly older sister and said, “You’s scared of the tunnels.”

  “Nuh-uhh,” mumbled his sister, hiding behind her water bottle.

  “Yes you is,” he persisted, “and I’s gonna tell Momma.” Their mother and oldest sister chuckled at the two.

  I tuned them out. What on earth could this arsonist be trying to do? Why burn someone while they’re still alive? Over the years Tranquil Heights had become much less tranquil, but it still wasn’t a place where you expected to see things of this nature. Family photos of the three victims stared back from individual pages. Even the victims seemed to be staring askance, awaiting some clue to the murderer… for answers, something. Each victim had gone off to school or work elsewhere in the world, one even went all the way to Alaska to become a crab fisherman. Yet somehow, they all wound up back home and burnt to a crisp. It was obvious there was a serial killer on the loose in Tranquil Heights, but more questions kept knocking at my mental door: Why only one victim a year? The more irksome issue was the lingering connection with September 20th and a murderer from my past.

  * * *

  September 22, 1996

  “Hello, Alex,” said Mr. Lee, taking my hand in both of his, just inside his front door. “I-it’s good to meet you.” His voice cracked and his eyes were red and irritated. He and his wife were both having a hard time with it, but he was handling it better than she. Mrs. Lee sat on the far end of the couch, refusing to look at us, her head buried in a blanket. “Please excuse my wife,” he continued. “It’s been very difficult.”

  “I understand, Mr. Lee. I’m so sorry for you loss,” Paige added, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It was horrible, but at least he’s safe now. Whoever it was can’t do anything more to him.”

  Mr. Lee nodded and his wife burst into another fit of sobs. He led Jessie and the two of us to the dining room, out of sight of Susan, but not out of hearing. He pulled out a seat like an elderly man, as though he’d aged forty years overnight, then low
ered himself into the chair. “J-Junior was a great athlete, a great student… great at everything he did,” Junior’s father whispered, trying to fight off a fit of sadness.

  “I remember Junior from high school. He was a few years younger, but he was a good kid,” I said. “I’m sure he would’ve made his mark in the world.”

  Jessie added, “Everyone that knew him was affected by his positive attitude and upbeat approach to anything he put his mind to. He already made a mark on many people’s lives, and he won’t be forgotten.”

  Mr. Lee nodded again, but was unable to meet our eyes. “Now, I appreciate you coming. I know Junior would too, but Jessie told me that you might be able to help where the police couldn’t. How’s that?”

  Jessie didn’t say how much he’d told the Lees, but he had to give them some reason for bringing us in. Fortunately, I was prepared for the question. “Well, I’m in school to become an officer of the law and have an uncle in the department. Something I’ve noticed in dealing with them is that, while very thorough, they sometimes miss things because they don’t always know where to look. They’re good; don’t get me wrong. I’m sure they’re working very hard to find Junior’s killer, but maybe if I had a look at Junior’s room, things they might have thought unrelated could be the needed clue to solve the case.”

  Junior’s father nodded again, his shoulders slumped as though carrying the weight of the world on them. “That’s fine. Junior looked up to you, Jessie, and if you trust Alex, then that’s good enough for me. Please, just try not to move anything if you don’t have to.” At this, he looked up at Jessie and me.

  “Not a problem, Mr. Lee,” I assured him. “We have Junior’s best interest at heart here, too.”

  Without another word, the brokenhearted man returned to scanning the table for something he’d lost… something he might never find again: his will to go on.

  Jessie directed Paige and me past Mrs. Lee and down the hallway to Junior’s bedroom with the silence of a mosquito walking on water. During the somber walk I remember thinking about a lesson I learned not long before: the victims often aren’t just the ones that have passed.

  Once my friends and I were inside, Jessie closed the door. “Man, Mr. Lee is rough. At least it ain’t as bad as the day we found out, but did you see those wrinkles at the corners of his eyes?”

  “They’re called crow’s feet,” Paige said, correcting him out of habit. She winced after the words passed her lips. It was obvious that Jessie was hurting too and didn’t need her added irritants.

  “Crow’s feet, right.”

  “Yeah, Jess. I saw them,” I replied.

  “Mr. Lee didn’t have them yesterday. I can chalk a good bit of it up to the stress and a long night, but those ain’t goin’ away,” he continued. “It’s like he’s already an old man. Hell, he’s barely forty-two, and Junior always took after his father. That’s why he was such a good guy to be around.”

  “I know,” I mumbled, glancing around the room. Jessie was just saying whatever came to mind at this point. He must’ve been real close to Junior. “Look, Jess, can you give me a hand?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his tone anxious.

  “Where’re Junior’s things, his possessions that the police recovered?”

  “They should be in a box,” Paige interjected, “and it might have tape—ah, like this.” She rose and tapped a finger on the black and white lettering of the tape strapped across a cardboard box on the dresser. It said, Evidence.

  “Yep, Mr. Lee put it right there,” Jessie said, as though the search was over and his task done.

  “While I look through that, do me a favor and—wait, was he a smoker?” I asked as a thought struck me. Jessie shook his head. “Then look to see if any of his clothes smell like ashes or fire. Check the hamper.”

  With a task in mind, Jessie leapt to the challenge and found a wicker hamper in the closet.

  I returned my attention to the box. It could have been the same one we searched through less than a year before, Frank’s box from when he died. The Drunk’s words again echoed in my mind. “Just give it back when you’s done.”

  “We’ll make sure to leave everything as it was before we got here,” I whispered, answering both Mr. Lee and my absent, hateful stepfather once more.

  “Don’t worry, we will,” Paige said reassuringly. Then, she sliced through the tape with a pocketknife, the one I’d gotten her when we went to the Luray Caverns over the summer. An image of one cavern was burnt into the wooden handle. I rolled out Junior’s desk chair while Paige lowered herself and the box onto the edge of his bed. Opening it, I peered in.

  The contents were sparse and nothing special, but had significance to Junior. In addition to his charred wallet and blackened cell phone, a burnt rabbit foot was attached to his keys. The fur on one side was rubbed clean, leaving the shriveled and charred bone and skin revealed. He must’ve been pretty stressed, I thought, or hopeful. Each item was labeled with a tag by the police department.

  I grabbed the cell first when a green light flashed from beneath the grime; nothing appeared to me.

  “Oh wow, how can that still work?” Paige asked, leaning closer, but she scrunched her nose when she got a whiff of the acrid smell.

  Flipping it open, I managed to wipe off the screen and manipulate the buttons to scroll through his contacts. I recognized most of them, but the last call was to a Shelley.

  “Jessie, got any idea who this Shelley girl might be?” I asked.

  Jessie dropped the shirt he’d been holding to his nose with a grimace. “Oh man, that’s bad. I think I found his gym clothes.”

  Paige snickered.

  “Nothing smoky yet?” I asked.

  “Nope, not yet.”

  “How about Shelley,” I prompted, nodding at the image again.

  Jessie leaned in. “Oh, that’s just a fish who’s been hanging around this year. Junior took a liking to her. She’s a sweet girl, really. That’s a picture of them there on the desk.” He picked up the glass-framed picture of Junior and a young brunette with a tight-fitting, pastel sweater that accentuated her maturing body. She looked small and innocent next to the strapping jock, but part of that may have been the carousel of painted horses behind them and the fair booths in the distance. They were sitting on the lowest platform, at the feet of the running animals, and it was as though the childish machine had paused just for this picture. He handed it to Paige.

  “A fish?” she asked, staring at the glass-framed image in her hand.

  “Yeah, a freshman,” Jessie supplied.

  “So, how long have—I mean, had they been an item?”

  Jessie’s shoulders slumped at the reminder of Junior’s passing, and he lost a bit of his vigor. “Not long. Maybe a couple weeks. Just since the school year started. They hooked up pretty quick.”

  “Hmmm, we may need to talk to her,” I said.

  Following my logic, Paige said, “She might have been the last one to see him alive.”

  I nodded. “Too bad he didn’t get a picture of the murderer and get it framed. That would’ve made this a lot easier. Keep looking, Jessie.” Turning back to the box, I reached for the decrepit, hairless lucky rabbit foot. The smell presaging a vision wafted through the air as soon as my fingers touched it, as though drifting up from the furry keychain.

  * * *

  “Wait, stop,” I demanded, attempting to force the great beast’s boot off me, but my hands were bound, and my head felt like an oversized balloon. The world swam in slow motion, and my mind was sluggish. As the situation gradually dawned on me, my heart skipped a beat and tripled its pace. “Y-you can’t do this.”

  The beast stepped back with dark, unintelligible eyes.

  A headstone stood near, crumbling under the moon’s rays from years of neglect, but it was something solid and present. A corner flaked off and tumbled to the damp grass below. I wiggled my body along the ground, mixing with the smell of dew, grass, and dirt. The decrepit stone drew closer a
s I progressed, but only by mere inches. A glance back at the hazy beast sent a shiver through me.

  The lifeless eyes of the hairy, elongated head stared down like dark, skewed orbs, and an odd, feminine voice that didn’t match the figure declared, “I am doing this!” In a hoarse rasp, she continued, “You are the first, the chosen, the answer to my prayers. You are my golden bull, my flesh sacrificed in her honor. Don’t flop around. Rise to your knees. Be what thou art, and accept your fate!”

  The shiver grew to a tremor, beginning in my feet—somewhere below my ankles where the lack of circulation had numbed any feeling—but it travelled upward. Using my elbows, I struggled to sit and then rise, overcoming the fearful wave travelling through every appendage. “P-p-please, I’m doing what you say. N-now, please, please let me go. I’ll get you a bull. I p-promise.”

  A whip lashed out of the creature’s hand. Where it landed, it slashed my shirt and tore the flesh beneath. “Speak when I say,” ordered the voice. This behemoth seemed to be a cross between an animal and a woman, like a monster from ancient myth, but its mouth did not move. My mind was sluggish and couldn’t come up with a name. Can there be a person beneath that? I wondered. Who would do such a thing? Summoning the courage to speak again, I voiced my second question.

  A whiplash answered me, adding a second stripe to the first. Then, the creature began chanting in a language I’d never heard.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” I asked, my pitch rising as the creature encircled my neck with the braided leather in one stroke and threw me onto a concrete slab. The moon and stars appeared overhead, calmly holding their place within the universe. Tree branches stood above, waving in the wind as though in a failed attempt to block my only light. “God, please help me,” I begged as the lash tightened, crushing my throat. A dark fog approached, obscuring my starry witnesses from view in black, swirling waves.