by Sean Platt
She laughed. “Seriously, though, you don’t need to work anymore. I’ll be out and on my own soon, and you’ll wish you spent more time with your adorable, funny, perfect daughter.”
She laughed, but there was truth in her jest.
And how could he justify the night job, and the call center gig, over spending time with her, especially when he didn’t need to work?
But his Purpose wasn’t just work. It was a calling, and he couldn’t expect Jordyn to understand when he couldn’t even tell her what he did once the sun went down.
“Okay,” he said, not sure if he meant it. “I’ll slow things down at work.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
He stopped at a park which he knew had no security cameras and looked at his cell, hesitating. His earlier try had gone to voicemail.
And Jasper didn’t want to leave anything on record.
The last thing he needed was a direct line back to him, which could then lead to Jordyn. Deputies would appear at work or home, asking, “How did you know about the kidnapping?”
And what could he say?
Jasper didn’t know the name of the man who was going to do it. He didn’t know exactly when it would happen, other than later today. Nor did he have anything credible to offer as proof.
They’d either think he was a crackpot or, if the kidnapping occurred as predicted, they’d think him complicit.
But that was better than them knowing about Jordyn’s gift.
It was Jasper’s job to keep that gift a secret from those who would exploit it.
There were secret government entities devoted to developing Jordyn’s gift. If anyone discovered that she could glimpse into the future, they’d take her, lock her in some underground black site lab, and pick her apart until they could replicate her ability for themselves. Then turn it into a weapon.
Until now, he’d operated in the shadows.
And while his phone wasn’t traceable, and he’d put distance between himself and his work and home, he’d have to leave his voice if she didn’t answer.
And his voice was a path they could trace to him.
He wished he’d thought to look into a voice changer. But Jordyn’s vision had come last night, with no time to plan or do things the right way.
He had two choices: allow the kidnapping, or risk his daughter’s welfare to save the child.
Jasper looked at Jordyn, leaning against the car, training her phone’s camera on a crane, walking stealthily as a giant white bird ambled toward something in the bushes. Jordyn was into photography, and often gave her favorite pictures some clever name that sounded cooler than what was actually happening. A stork stalking an insect might be called, “Stealthy Long Legs Slithering Sneakily.”
He encouraged her photography bug, but the years had given Jordyn a number of hobbies, none lasting more than a few months, so he didn’t encourage it enough to purchase expensive equipment.
Jordyn looked back at Jasper. “You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna call?”
He nodded, then dialed Mallory Black.
Voicemail again.
He hung up. “Shit.”
Jasper looked at his watch: 2:05 P.M.
He had the distinct feeling that he was running out of time.
His heart raced as he weighed options against a ticking clock. No matter how many times he tried telling himself that he had more than one choice, he always came back to the same one: Leave a message.
He dialed.
The message played.
Then the beep.
He took a deep breath, then said the thing he’d been working himself up to say since this morning.
“Hello, Mallory Black. You don’t know me and have no reason to trust what I’m about to tell you, but your daughter is in danger. She’s going to be kidnapped today. I can’t tell you how I know. But I do. And you must act quickly if you expect to save her.”
He hung up, his heart racing.
Jordyn approached, hands stuffed deep into her dusters pockets. “Well? Did you do it?”
“Yeah.”
Jordyn raised her phone and snapped a photo of Jasper.
“What are you going to call that?”
“Far-Sighted Father Fucking Up.”
“Swear jar,” he said, hoping she wasn’t right.
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 - MALLORY BLACK
Mal and Mike pulled up to the house on Bleaker, to see the usual spectacle when something bad happened on a suburban street. Patrol cars kissed the curb, an ambulance waited, and practically every neighbor stood outside, some on their lawns, others clustered together, trying to eye the crime scene and speculating about what might be happening.
Mal scanned the neighbors looking for anyone out of place, like someone returning to the crime scene to watch things unfold.
Not seeing anyone too unusual, she followed Mike to the rear of the house where they met the officer who was called out after a neighbor reported seeing a broken window in the back yard.
The deputy, a patrolman named Steve Billings, briefed them.
“Neighbor saw the broken bedroom window, and some blood outside the window, then called it in. The Horowitz’s were supposed to be on vacation as of yesterday, so a broken window is obviously suspicious. My partner and I arrived on scene, looked in the window and saw nothing, then went around to the sliding glass doors looking into the kitchen. That’s where we saw the bodies. We went inside to see if we could administer help, but it was too late. Then we called it in.”
“Thank you.” Mike slipped on his gloves and shoe covers to keep the scene uncontaminated for the evidence technicians who would be following behind them taking photographs and collecting evidence.
Mal did the same, then followed Mike inside.
The elderly couple was dead on the kitchen floor, dressed in their pajamas, breakfast on the table, half-eaten.
The woman appeared to have six to eight stab wounds in her chest. Her husband’s face had been hit with something blunt, probably the blood-soaked cast iron skillet lying on the ground beside him.
As Mal bent to observe the spatter patterns, she remembered the blood outside the bedroom window.
She went back outside, removed the shoe coverings and slipped them in her jacket, and examined the broken window.
This was how the killer entered the house. He broke the window and probably cut himself going in or out. She could go back inside and see if there was blood in there, but at the moment that didn’t matter.
She looked around on the grass beneath the window. St. Augustine grass was dry, like it usually was in October as colder air came to claim Northern Florida.
And there she saw it, drops of blood leading away from the window.
Mal followed the trail. Just a few drops every few feet, not a gushing wake, but surely enough to work with.
The drops formed an intermittent trail, snaking around the home’s side and into the front yard before dying in the middle of the street.
Mal looked up and down the road, past the patrol cars and police tape, toward the congregating neighbors. There were people in front of several houses, older folks who made up a large part of this area, a few stay-at-home moms with their kids, and a handful of adults in their thirties who worked from home, or maybe were unemployed.
An old woman with thick-framed glasses stood next door to Mal’s right, waving, likely wanting to get her attention, and the inside scoop.
Mal ignored her, looking up and down the street, seeing who stood in front of what yard, then eyed the houses where no one was standing. Some belonged to people who weren’t home. It was the middle of the day, after all.
But one house, three doors down and across the street, caught Mal’s attention. It had three cars in the driveway. With three cars, surely someone was home. And yet, no one was outside.
It was an older house with an unkempt yard and every shade drawn.
Mal wondered if any of the bystanders belonged to the home
. Or were the residents inside and ignoring the commotion?
Mal approached an old lady next door.
“Hello, Ma’am.”
“Hello, officer. What happened?”
“We’re investigating now. I was hoping you could help me.”
The woman leaned forward, conspiratorially, and in a thick Boston accent said, “How can I help?”
“That house there,” Mal pointed toward the trio of vehicles, “do you see the owners anywhere?”
The old lady looked up and down the street. “No. They’re probably inside.”
“And did you see them today, at all?”
“No. I was on the Skype with my grandkids earlier.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“Oh, nothing but trouble, those folks.”
“Yeah? Why is that?”
The old lady lowered her voice. “All three of ‘em are trailer trash. The only one that works is the father, but he’s a trucker and almost never home. Mom and her son just sit in the house and get drunk all day, it seems. And they’re always fighting.”
“How old is her son?”
“Thirty-one and still living at home! Get a job!”
The woman waved her hands as if to shoo the son away, her face filled with revulsion.
Mal smiled. “What else can you tell me about him?”
“What’s there to tell? He’s a loser. Always drunk, been locked up a few times for petty theft, possession, and who knows what else? A real piece of work from what I hear. Hasn’t had a job in years. Cops have been to their place at least twenty times for noise disturbances. They ought to kick him out.”
“Thank you,” Mal said.
“Did that loser have anything to do with this?”
“I don’t know yet, but I appreciate your help.”
Mal walked away from the woman, returned to Mike, then radioed in for a bloodhound.
**
Mal and Mike stayed behind the bloodhound and his officer.
The canine sniffed at the trail, following the blood right back to the three vehicles and the house behind them.
“Wow, you so called this,” Mike said as they approached the front door.
Mal knocked.
A fat woman answered. In her 50s, wearing sweats, a T-shirt that looked more like a muumuu, and her hair in a ponytail. A long cigarette hung sideways from her mouth.
She had the worn expression of someone used to opening the door to sheriff’s deputies. “Yeah?”
Mike took lead — he was always more charming with the ladies.
“Hello, ma’am, we’re investigating a break-in across the street, and our dog here is on the trail of something. Would you mind if we came inside looked around?”
The woman, whose name was Eunice Brandon, and whose son was named, no shit, Benny Brandon, let out a small sigh then opened the door.
Instead of asking any questions, she returned to her kitchen and whatever she had on the stove.
Mal looked at Mike, who shrugged.
Mal told the bloodhound and his handler to hang tight at the front door.
Inside they were immediately overwhelmed by the acrid stench from years of cigarette smoke, caking the walls and ceiling in yellow. The home was dark and messy, with threadbare, stained carpet, holes in the walls, and furniture that a thrift shop wouldn’t touch.
The living room was in the back, where Benny Brandon’s 6’ 7” and 400 pounds were stuffed into a sagging recliner watching TV, hands shoved into his jacket pocket. The TV, a giant 55-inch flat screen, was cranked close to 100, blasting a wrestling match with thumping music, angry men in a faux argument, and eager crowds waiting to see some man-on-man in spandex action, even if the shit was faker than Jerry Springer.
Mal and Mike entered the living room. Benny stared at the screen, engrossed.
Mal made a point of passing in front of the television on her way to look out the back door, as if she were searching for something.
Usually, when you went poking around someone’s house, they would demand to know what you were looking for. Or at least they’d acknowledge you. When you walked in front of the TV, a person would crane their neck to look around you.
But Benny’s droopy eyes stared straight ahead.
He might’ve thought he was playing cool, but he looked like a jackal.
Mal had to be careful, especially given his size. Benny might be a fat pile of shit, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
His hands were still buried in his pockets.
Mal finally spoke. “Hey, Benny.”
“Hey,” he said, not looking at her, as if it were customary for the sheriff’s department to pass through his living room.
“We’re looking into a break-in across the street and talking to neighbors. Seen anything suspicious today?”
“Nah. Been watchin’ TV.”
“Ah, okay,” Mal said.
She returned to the front porch and asked the handler to come inside.
The bloodhound began sniffing at the carpet, moving forward.
Neither Eunice nor Benny seemed to notice.
The hound led them to the bathroom, then jumped into the shower, sniffing at the drain and barking.
Mal looked at Mike and whispered, “I’m thinking he came home and washed the blood in the shower.”
Mike nodded.
So did the handler.
Mal thanked the deputy, then asked him to wait outside and returned to the living room. Benny was still sitting there like an imbecile, glued to his wrestling match, left hand out of his pocket and sitting on his lap, but the right still concealed. He was definitely hiding it.
Mal tried to imagine how he got his entire fat frame through the window, and couldn’t quite work it out, but if she could get a look at his right hand, she’d probably find the wound that proved he was there.
“Well, I can’t find what we’re looking for. Thanks for your time, Benny.”
She approached him, working out which of her hands would get him offering his right. She extended her left, and immediately realized her error.
Shit!
She shook Benny’s left hand, a large and sweaty paw, thanked him again, then started to leave.
She slowed her pace, trying to think of a reason to turn back. Then, with a glance at the TV, she asked, “Is this one of those pay-per-view matches?”
“Nah. It’s from the weekend. I DVR’d it.”
His eyes were nervous. The last thing Mal wanted was for this to get ugly inside his house. He could have a gun in the cushion.
“And isn’t that short guy the one on those pizza commercials?” she asked, vaguely remembering him from TV.
“Yeah, that’s him. His name is Bobo Bomber Clinton.”
“Bobo Bomber?” Mal asked, laughing.
“That’s his nickname because he likes to do a diving elbow drop on his opponents. Little guys like that don’t got power moves, so they go aerial.”
Mal was surprised how cogently he spoke about the sport. She engaged him further, asking questions about different wrestling styles and who his favorite wrestler was, along with a bunch of other stuff that no girl had probably ever asked Benny before.
He was animated as he spoke, with a light in his eyes that surprised her.
How the hell can he be going on like this? Did he forget that he just murdered two old people?
A smarter suspect wouldn’t be nearly as into the conversation. They’d be worrying where this was all going, or when the other shoe might be dropping. But not Benny Brandon.
She glanced over at Mike. He was smiling in either admiration or mockery. She’d probably hear no end of wrestling conversation for the next three months.
After the conversation died, Mal reached out her hand, this time the right one, and thanked Benny again.
His right hand came out, heavily bandaged.
“Oh,” she said, shaking, “what happened to your hand?”
His nervous eyes flitted away f
rom hers. “I cut it earlier.”
“Ah, hate when that happens.”
Mal turned to leave, then spun around one final time. “Oh, I almost forgot. Can I talk to you outside for a moment?” She gave a sideways glance to the kitchen as if she wanted to ask Benny something in private, away from his mother. Dumb fuck probably thought she wanted to ask him out.
“Uh, sure,” he said, following Mal outside.
Once outside, Mike prepared himself behind Benny, just in case force was necessary.
Mal pointed to the Horowitz home. “How well do you know the Horowitz’s?”
Benny looked down, shuffling his feet. “Not too well.”
“Would you mind coming with us to the station where we can discuss it further?”
He looked at her, confused. “Is that necessary?”
She nodded, holding her friendly smile. “Yeah, Benny, I’m afraid so.”
**
Benny sat in the interview room across from Mal, fidgeting in his seat. They hadn’t cuffed him nor read him his rights yet. Just some friendly questioning. Mal even made a point of leaving the door open behind her.
From behind the two-way mirror, Mike was watching, maybe along with her boss, Sheriff Gloria Bell.
One of Mal’s favorite parts of the job was questioning suspects, getting them to lower their guard and confess to the crime. Reading people was one of her strengths, and something she was proud of. She figured Benny for a pushover. A troubled kid, even though in his thirties, with several drug arrests, some disturbing the peace, and a few fights with his parents to litter his rap sheet.
But he wasn’t evil.
Then again, neither were most people she sat across from in an interview room.
Their situation was often a combination of a crappy childhood and parents who didn’t give a shit, usually from broken homes with abusive family members. They were junkies more often than not, with a recent uptick in opiate and heroin abuse. A poor upbringing plus a lack of lucky breaks and too many poor choices could make otherwise good people fall into some terrible things.
She figured that was the situation with Benny.
