by Jeff Elkins
After breakfast, he’d basked under the eight heads of his shower. Four above his head and four at his midsection, the soft spray enveloped his body from all angles. He hummed to himself as he scrubbed. The soap he used had been a gift from a woman he’d spent a few nights with last month. It was filled with tiny grains of sand, supposedly taken from an exotic island just before it had been swallowed by the Pacific.
Hammerjam chose a gray suit with a purple tie. He had a board meeting at two and needed to remind them that he was king. The deep purple would serve as well as any crown. It radiated power and wealth. He pulled tight the small, black laces of his hand-made shoes as he dictated an email to his assistant. It had been a normal morning for John Hammerjam.
Mencken had been waiting outside the front door of the building for hours. He’d come there straight after leaving the Cleveland Carnage. That’s what he’d decided to call it, “The Cleveland Carnage.” He liked the alliteration of it. He’d said it over and over, holding the words in his mouth, tasting them. “Cleveland Carnage Cleveland Carnage Cleveland Carnage.”
Mencken’s eyes throbbed with exhaustion and dehydration. His beard was a combination of snot, tears, and vomit. His legs wobbled beneath him. There was only one thing he wanted more than sleep – to strike back.
He’d waited as the cops processed the scene. Three stretchers. Three body bags. Two large. One small. Watching the coroner’s van silently roll away, Mencken had known he needed to hit fast and hard. He’d jumped on his bike and sped to the Rebuild Baltimore Headquarters, to wait for the CEO’s arrival.
The second Hammerjam’s chauffeur opened the door of the Town Car, Mencken pounced. He ran toward the car with his phone extended like a camera, yelling, “John Hammerjam! John Hammerjam! I need a statement.” As he approached the car, regret-filled Mencken’s mind. He didn’t know what he would say to the executive. He wasn’t prepared. He wished he’d had the forethought to call Tay, to tell him to bring a camera. He was forcing this.
Much to his shock, before reaching the door of the black town car, Mencken found himself falling backward, crashing into the concrete. The impact jarred his spine and made his tailbone sing with pain. It was only from this low position on the pavement that Mencken considered that the chauffeur might also double as a bodyguard.
John Hammerjam stood over Mencken. His shoes were freshly shined. The thin black laces were perfectly double-knotted into crisp bows. Mencken couldn’t help but study them, as they were inches from his face.
“Can I help you?” the CEO said.
Mencken looked up. Seeing the man’s smug smile buried his embarrassment and rekindled his rage. Mencken jumped to his feet. “I’m with the Star. I’m here for a statement from you on the death of State’s Attorney Alexander Cleveland.”
Standing, Mencken had inches on the man. Hammerjam looked up into Mencken’s eyes. It was the look a cat gave a mouse right after the mouse had been caught, right before it had been eaten. “It’s tragic. A great loss to the city. Alex was a good man. We will all mourn him.”
“Will you? Will you really? My understanding is that he was building a case against you claiming the misappropriation of city monies.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
The file folders in Mencken’s mind delivered a dagger of information. “The city awarded your company four million dollars fifteen months ago. For the improvement of infrastructure around your waterfront development in Canton. The State’s Attorney was preparing to prove those funds were instead rolled into the redevelopment of the luxury apartments you’re building in the Inner Harbor.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Hammerjam said, still smiling, still maintaining eye contact. “I’m not sure what you are insinuating, but Alex was a good friend. We often played squash together. He and his family were at my apartment last month for dinner. I’m going to miss him.”
The verbal shot to Mencken’s understanding left him breathless. He wasn’t prepared for the idea of a personal relationship between the two men. The revelation made him tired. He shouldn’t be here. He hadn’t done enough homework.
“Are you okay? You don’t look so well,” Hammerjam said, still smiling.
Things started to spin. Mencken closed his eyes, but all he could hear was the imagined screaming of the dead Cleveland child.
Hammerjam grabbed the back of Mencken’s neck and pulled Mencken’s ear down to his mouth. “You’re not with the Star. Not really. I know exactly who you are, and I know what’s happening to you. The spinning you’re feeling right now, the chaos, the mayhem in your mind – that’s his true gift. And he’s taken a shine to you.”
Mencken tried to pull back, repulsed, but Hammerjam’s grip was too strong. The shorter man held him tight, refusing to let him escape.
Hammerjam continued to smile and whisper, “He knows everything about you. It’s how he works. There’s a good chance you’ve even met him, or at least his disciples. They like to make personal contact before the hunt begins. They’re like hounds that have your scent. You keep calling him a hitman, but he’s not. He’s much more. He’s the Grimm Reaper. And he’s coming for you. And once he tires of toying with you, he’ll finish you off; that is, if he doesn’t drive you mad first. Either way, you’re already done.”
Releasing his neck, Hammerjam pushed Mencken hard with both hands. The tall reporter fell to his butt once again. “Look at you,” Hammerjam said, standing over Mencken. “Now look at me. You think you’re even a speck on my radar? You don’t even register as a threat.” Laughing, Hammerjam walked away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I’m sorry, sir. He can’t see you right now,” the Baltimore Star receptionist said. She stood between Mencken and the entrance to the office. It was a brave move for the five-foot-two, hundred pound woman in a blue skirt and silk blouse.
“I need to talk to him, now!” Mencken yelled as he stomped his foot. “Right! Now!”
“Mr. Winchell is in a staff meeting, sir,” the receptionist said, calmly. “I’ll tell him you’re here as soon as they are done. If you would just take a seat over-”
Mencken grabbed the small woman by the shoulders and pushed her out of his way. She squeaked with surprise as she fell. He didn’t pause to see if she was okay. Storming through the door of the newspaper headquarters, he frantically searched the open-plan office. Like curious prairie dogs, heads throughout the room poked up from behind their light blue walls, but after realizing Mencken was no one of importance, they retreated back into their holes.
Mencken’s eyes scanned the outskirts of the room. The walls were lined with glass rooms. Most seemed to be private offices, small spaces with a single desk or two. Finally, he found the room he needed – a large conference room filled with people.
Mencken strode across the room, pushed the door open, and charged into the midst of the meeting. Winchell was sitting at the head of a long brown table, with four reporters crowded onto either side. They were all dressed in business-casual attire. They were mixed in ages, genders, and races, but they all had the stressed, pasty look of writers who’d spent too much time inside under deadlines. Mencken had met some of them. These were the division chiefs for the Star.
Sam, who was at the far end of the table from Winchell, looked up, smiled, and said, “Hey, Mencken. Surprised to see you here.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Mencken barked. “Richard, I need to talk with you. Right now.”
“You look like shit, Mencken,” Winchell replied. “Everyone,” he said to the room. “This is Mencken Cassie. Brings us great stuff, but isn’t quite ready for a desk yet.”
“Loved the stuff on the sex-trafficking bust you sent us,” said a gray-haired, heavyset man in a white button-down with rolled up sleeves. “Three sites busted at once. An interview with the property owner. That was good work. Wish I could get the cops to listen to me like that.”
“Richard,” Mencken pleaded, holding back tears. “Please. Please. I
need to talk to you.”
“Shoot kid,” Winchell said. “If it’s a story it’s going to end up in this room anyway.”
“I, um. I.” Mencken could feel tears building behind his eyes. The imagined sound of the Cleveland child returned, rattling softly in the back of his mind. “I. I, um.” He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself.
“Spit it out kid,” Winchell demanded. “Shit or get off the pot.”
Tears trickled from his eyes. “There all, um. There all connected. Everything. It’s. It’s all connected.”
Winchell sat forward. “What are talking about?”
Mencken wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “The hit in the park. The murder of Anita Dickson. The fires at the two bars. The kidnapping four months ago. The hit-and-run on Councilman Jackman’s son at Easter. The death of that priest over in Sandtown last year. And the. And the-” Mencken stumbled, struggling to find words. Tears flowed fresh again. He closed his eyes and saw Alexander on the floor. He saw the wound in Tamara Cleveland’s neck. He saw the child in her lap. A barrier broke inside of him. Water streamed from his eyes, leaving streaks on his cheeks. “And the Clevelands. And the. The Clevelands. They’re all connected.”
“I heard you were there,” Sam said. “They told us you were the first on the scene? You doing okay?”
Rage filled Mencken’s chest. Pounding on the table with both hands, he screamed, “Shut the fuck up, Sam! Just shut up! I’m trying to tell you. I’m trying to tell you, they’re all the same person. Every hit. They were all done by the same killer. He’s like a hitman. But he’s not a hitman. He’s more a, a, a cleaner, of sorts. He does things. He does things for the Cabal. And he killed the Clevelands. Last night. He stabbed their baby.” The rage was replaced again by sorrow and tears. “He stabbed their baby. Who. Who stabs a baby? Who does that?”
“Slow down, kid,” Winchell said in a soothing tone. “Just slow down.” He rubbed his forehead and looked at the ceiling. Then he looked back to Mencken. “Listen kid, when was the last time you slept?”
“Goddamn it!” Mencken raged again. “I don’t need sleep. I don’t. I just. I just need to catch him. I need him gone. So. So I can write it. I can put it all together. I can do it. I’ll outline everything.” Mencken’s head and lungs began to hurt. He was suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. He needed a drink of something. His lips and tongue burned. “I just need you to run it, Richard. I need you to promise to run it. Please. Please. I need you to promise.” Words were becoming difficult. The room rocked making Mencken felt like he was on a ship. He couldn’t catch his breath. “Please,” he gasped. “Please, just. Just promise to run it. Just.” Everyone was staring at him. His legs were suddenly weak. He braced himself on the table. “I just. He can’t hide anymore, Richard. He can’t.”
Sam caught him mid-fall, almost collapsing under Mencken’s weight. He held Mencken up, saying softly over and over, “It’s going to be okay. It’ll be okay. It’s going to be alright.”
Winchell was standing. Many in the room had come to their feet when Mencken fell. “It’s going to be alright,” Winchell said.
“He stabbed the baby,” Mencken whispered, bracing himself on Sam and the table. “He put the baby in his mother’s lap, and then he stabbed them both in the neck. While his mom held him. He just stabbed him. They died together. Bleeding out.”
“Jesus,” Winchell said.
Sam rubbed Mencken’s back. “Let’s go get you cleaned up,” he said. “Marge will get you some coffee. We’ll splash some water in your face. Then you can tell us all about it.”
Sam led Mencken to a bathroom. Mencken didn’t recognize himself in the mirror. His eyes carried heavy bags. His mustache and goatee had begun to clot together from tears, vomit, and snot. There was bruising around his neck and a fresh cut on his cheek. He splashed water in his face. It ran down his mustache and filled his nose. Holding himself up with both hands on the sink in front of him, he closed his eyes. He felt like he might pass out. Behind his lids, he saw the expression on the Cleveland baby’s face again. Vomit rose in his throat and the room began to spin. He gripped both sides of the sink to keep from falling over. Breathing deeply, he tried to force calm, to regain control. After a few minutes, he began to feel stronger. He took another look at himself. He was still there, behind the exhaustion.
A smiling face appeared behind him in the mirror. “You’re Goddamn Mencken Cassie,” Sam said, putting his hands on Mencken’s shoulders. “Pull yourself together. You’ve got a story to tell. Because you’re goddamn Mencken Cassie.”
“I’m goddamn Mencken Cassie,” Mencken repeated. His body tingled with each word. “I’m goddamn Mencken Cassie.”
Sam rubbed his shoulders. “You’re goddamn Mencken Cassie,” he said with pride. “And you’ve got a story to tell.”
Mencken sighed. “Thank you, Sam,” he said.
Sam clapped him on the back. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back in there.”
When Sam and Mencken returned to the conference room, there were only two people left at the table. Winchell stood and introduced the man sitting next to him. “Mencken Cassie, this is Don Angelus. Don is working the Cleveland story for us.”
Don offered his hand to Mencken and the two men shook. “I know your work,” Don said. “I’ve been looking forward to putting a face with a byline.”
“Thanks,” Mencken said quietly. He wished he could return the compliment. The truth was, he didn’t recognize the name. He couldn’t place anything the man had written. Mencken took the seat to Winchell’s left. Sam took the next chair.
“Alright,” Winchell said. “Start from the beginning. You said the word ‘Cabal.’” He put air quotes around the title as if it were a ridiculous notion.
Mencken looked at his hands. They were folded on the table. His eye lids were heavy and his head ached. A voice in his gut demanded he remain silent. It screamed that he was about to give up his Pulitzer to no-name Don, but Mencken was too tired to fight anymore. He couldn’t muster the will to hold things close to his chest. He knew he needed help.
“I first noticed them when the casino went up,” Mencken started. He kept his eyes focused on his hands during the explaining. He was nervous that if he looked up, he’d see the other three men laughing at him. He was afraid they’d call him crazy.
Mencken explained the patterns he’d begun to notice. The strategic increase and then sharp decrease in crime. The way the three development companies bought low, rebuilt, and then sold high once the crime had cooled. He talked about cops and criminals with nice houses and cars in the suburbs. He shared about council people taking bribes and kickbacks for paving the way for development. He confessed to harassing members of the Cabal in order to get a response, to going to Agamemnon’s house, and then this morning to Hammerjam’s office.
Then finally, he came to the enforcer. “And so,” Mencken said softly. “When they run into a problem they can’t overcome in the normal way, they call out their hitman. And he takes care of it. Like with Alexander Cleveland. He was going after the development companies for misappropriate of funds. Well, at least I thought he was. I had a source in his office who said he was. But then,” Mencken remembered what Hammerjam had said about he and Cleveland being friends. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He rubbed his right eye with his palm. “A source told me he was. And they couldn’t make him stop. So last they killed him. They killed him and his family.”
“I believe you,” Sam said.
“Shut up, Sam,” Winchell barked. He was leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “The problem is, kid. You don’t have any proof. It’s a good theory, but you’ve got nothing concrete. Do you even know who this hitman is?”
Mencken took his phone out and slid it to Winchell. “Open my Twitter account,” he said.
Winchell slid the phone back. “Please. Do I look like a twelve-year-old girl to you? I don’t know how to use that.”
Sam picked up the
phone, passed it to Mencken to unlock, then took it back. He scrolled around for around for minute or two. “The guy’s been sending him notes, Dick. He’s been taunting him.”
“Gimmie that,” Winchell said. He looked through the Twitter feed too. “It’s too generic. This doesn’t prove anything. Someone might even accuse you of making this all up yourself.”
“I know,” Mencken said. “But I didn’t. It’s real.”
Winchell sat forward and rubbed his temples with his middle fingers. “I believe you,” he said, shaking his head. “Jesus. I believe you. But you’ve got more work to do. You can’t play conjecture with this one. You’ve got to have cold, hard, facts. No online, blogging, guess-here, insinuation-there bullshit. You’ve got to do this old-school. You get the proof. Then we go to print.”
Mencken nodded.
“You got a suspect? Or a lead?”
“Yeah,” Mencken said. “I know who it is.”
“Great. Tail his ass. Keep on him. He’ll do something stupid. You got anything to add,” Winchell asked no-byline Don.
“Yeah,” Don said. “Stop fucking with them until you finish the story. This is serious shit. They’ll kill. And if they kill you then we’ve got no story. So lay low.”
“Agreed,” Winchell said, smacking the table. “They already know you’re coming. You’ve got to keep a low profile now. Make them think the Clevelands scared the shit out of you. No more tweeting. No more public confrontations. Put it all in the work. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Mencken said.
“Okay,” Winchell said, standing. “Good. Now, go home. Take a nap. Eat something. Take a damn shower. Then write some shit down. You’ll feel better.”
“Thank you,” Mencken said. Then he stood and walked toward the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Suspecting Chris and Jose were early risers, Mencken began staking out Imani’s a little before five in the morning – a good five hours before his usual appearance at the shop. The duo emerged thirty minutes later. They shot from the door and continued at a quick pace down the empty sidewalk like men on a mission. Mencken looked at his motorcycle and wondered what the best way to follow them was. He decided that as long as they were on foot, he would be on foot too.
