Sleepwalker

by Michael Laimo

  “What’s up?”

  “An elderly woman was just carjacked in the back parking lot by a man fitting Sparke’s description. He was wearing all black. At first I didn’t think it could be Sparke because the clothing didn’t match, but now it makes sense after hearing her story.”

  “Where’s the woman now?”

  “Gordon is getting her statement.”

  “Is she injured?”

  “A bit shaken up. The bastard held a screwdriver to her neck, but didn’t hurt her. She said the man told her that ‘he was innocent’, and that he ‘was dealt a bad hand’.”

  Leonard pondered the defensive remarks. Was Richard Sparke a pawn in some wicked game? Or were his words a clever diversion? “Interesting. Sound like Sparke?”

  “Who else?”

  “Thing is, the nurse here says that Sparke left the scene under normal circumstances, and that she was surprised by a third person who shoved her away before she could get a glimpse of him. This ‘third’ person fled the scene through the stairwell.”

  “Leaving bloody footprints behind.”

  “Of course.”

  “By any chance, did you catch what Sparke was wearing on his feet when he got off the bus?” Kevin asked.

  “No.”

  Kevin paused, rubbed his chin in thought. “Len, seems to me that Sparke murdered the doctor, and that somewhere along the line a third party entered the room, saw the murder, freaked out and ran, but not until after Sparke left the scene.”

  “Same third party, perhaps, as Pam and Richard’s third party?” Leonard insinuated.

  Kevin nodded. “Could very well be, no? He or she was spared in Richard’s kitchen.”

  “And then again here.”

  “Right.”

  “But wouldn’t Sparke have had blood on him when he left?”

  “That’s why he changed his clothes, Kevin!”

  “To black, so none of it would show.”

  “Resourceful guy, that Sparke.”

  “So...assume for a moment that it was Sparke who masterminded the doctor’s murder. Unless he took the jeans and plaid shirt he wore with him, they should still be in Delaney’s office, right?”

  “In a perfect world, Kevin, perhaps. You and I both know that this odd world we’re suddenly a part of is far from perfect.”

  There was a moment of silence between them, Leonard realizing that they were once again grasping at short straws. Then, suddenly, as if sent by telegram, an alarming and rather obvious recollection entered his mind. He was stricken with curiosity, took out the pad with Carol Davis’s notes on it and began jotting the thought.

  “Len?”

  He ignored Kevin until he finished writing, the rolling theories melting away from Leonard’s notion, bringing back the headache. “Yeah?”

  “What are you writing?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier--damn it, we were discussing it just before!”

  “What is it?”

  “Sparke. And his ex-wife Samantha. The night she was beaten. I told you earlier that even though she initially blamed her husband, and that there was no evidence of forced entry into their house, the possibility of an intruder being responsible for her injuries was discussed.”

  “Right, you said that the intruder either let himself in, or that Sparke...oh damn, I see what you’re getting at.”

  “Sparke definitely let the intruder in because it was a person he knew.”

  “A third party. You think there’s a connection?”

  “Kevin, there has to be. It’s too coincidental.”

  “Holy...” Kevin rubbed his cheeks, leaving them red and revealing his high level of astonishment. “Len, remember earlier, outside Pam’s apartment, when we said things were getting crazy?”

  “Yeah...”

  “They’ve just gotten a helluva lot crazier.”

  “Either that, or we’re really over-scrutinizing everything.”

  Captain Reese walked over, gave Leonard and Kevin a strong silent look that carried at least a dozen plausible interpretations, each and every one a question that would have to be answered sooner or later. “It’s gonna be a long night, boys. You up for it?”

  Silently they eyed one another in mutual agreement--yes we are, more than you can ever imagine, their thoughts definitively lying--then followed Captain Reese into Marcus Delaney’s office.

  Lam

  The sun tailed off toward the west, still high in the sky but angled so its beams touched the canopy of leaves above in a reflective bounce. The trees were thick, trunks staggered like soldiers, their roots reaching underfoot in serpentine loops, threatening to take any passer-by to the carpet of bristling foliage. It was a game of hedge and dodge: don’t get bitten or you might get hurt.

  Richard had been bitten three times, once real hard on the chin as a nice hunk of dry earth found his lower jaw--thanks to the aid of a thick curve of elm root twisting six inches above ground. Crumbs of rough bark and dead grass clung to his new clothes, dry soil matting the material at his elbows and knees.

  Bathed in semi-gloom, Richard moved east away from the downtown area, across the thickest stretch of woodland Fairview had to offer. He caught brief glimpses of sunlight filtering in through thin patches in the treetops, giving him a breadcrumb-like trail to follow as he staggered further away from the scene of the crime.

  Crickets were in abundance here, their ceaseless cries piercing to Richard’s strained psyche; on and on and on they went, like the incessant toll of a phone left off the hook, neither pine nor elm nor brush absorbing the racket as it filtered into his head, finding the nerves of his bones and rattling them until he felt his blood begin to boil.

  How I wished I had my conscience to talk with, help calm me down and tell me that everything will be all right if I just...

  Just what? What should I do next?

  No answer from his conscience: it was still very much dead.

  He felt for the security of the screwdriver in his pocket, just in case he might need to exercise it, using his other hand to brush aside errant brambles and branches as he pressed forward. He caught a palm-full of thorns, nearly screamed out in pain but choked it down for fear of pinpointing his location to anyone who might be out here seeking him.

  With the sun lowering, a wind emerged, restlessly tossing the upper reaches of the trees about, creating a static-like sound that grew stronger as he moved deeper into the woods. This, in combination with the crickets, made more than enough noise for Richard to wonder if he’d ever hear anyone approaching him, but not enough, he felt, to shroud the noisy twigs and underbrush snapping beneath his footsteps.

  He continued on, running, stumbling, breaths short and spurting, advancing trance-like through the woods for a half-hour or more, hearing only the crickets and the wind, his footsteps and his own conscience-free voice trying unsuccessfully to accept and make sense of the day’s horrifying events.

  Then, he stopped. He heard something else.

  He pressed his body against the trunk of an elm, one hand on the rough bark, the other retrieving the screwdriver, primed for defense. He waited for what seemed an eternity, listening attentively and peering into the surrounding woodland in search of what he thought could have been a voice. In this interval of inaction, he was haunted by images of blood; thick and red, spurting from Pamela’s face onto his kitchen floor; a glistening swamp pouring from Dr Delaney’s twitching corpse. Then, the blood of his own face, a dream-like image--a premonition?--torn away to reveal nothing more than splintered bone and gristle, his tooth-shattered mouth gaping crazily as his voice box sputtered an attempt to express pain.

  When he heard nothing further to confirm his growing suspicion of a stalker--most specifically the man in black--he did his best to shake away the daunting vision, then pressed on, continuing east and veering slightly to the right, following a thin matted trail mostly free of brush. He trampled weeds and grass, loose stones digging into his heels, all the while fig
hting exhaustion but making decent progress nonetheless, realizing suddenly where his instincts were taking him. He kept his eyes peeled on all sides, taking advantage of gaps in the woods to help reaffirm his current state of solitude. He pictured in his weary mind the place he was now heading, and wondered if it would provide the much needed sanctuary he so recklessly, and suddenly, sought.

  He went on for another five minutes.

  Then froze.

  He heard it again.

  A scraping sound. Raspy. Breathing?

  He crouched down, looked left, right, up down. Saw nothing. No one.

  Heard only the wind. The crickets. My mind’s playing games with me. Common sense dictates that it is only an animal. A squirrel, perhaps a deer. That is what I heard. It is not the man in black, purposefully stalking me.

  He waited. Thirty seconds. A minute. Although he still felt as if something was hiding back there in the woods, watching him and perhaps thirsting for his blood, nothing out of the ordinary presented itself to him. He knew that for the last half hour he was heedlessly acting out the role of prey--in the parking lot, here in the woods--but only now did he feel like an actual target desperately seeking a place to hide. Wholly frustrated. In pain and wearied. He wanted to scream.

  Instead, in silence, he stood from his crouch, stretched slightly, then moved on, coerced by the desire to find answers to the mystery abruptly dismembering his life. Along the natural pathway he traversed, still heading east, a half dozen times nearly startling with panic at the sound of a twig snapping under his footstep, his mind contriving the presence of the man in black, standing an arm-length’s away, reaching out to take him by the throat once and for all. What would’ve Doctor Delaney said about my exaggerated response to so many naturally common noises? He’d probably tell me, finally, that my anxieties are incurable, and that I’m one truly messed-up psychopath on the lam from the law.

  The law? What about the man in black? Richard’s mind was again consumed with his nemesis, once a figure in his dreams, now a very real and tangible entity who somehow escaped the ever-present blue light into the world of the sentient, of the awake.

  An alarming thought shot through Richard’s brain, like a bullet from a gun: What if this is all just a dream? Maybe I’m still in the condo, sleepwalking, making a big-time mess of things. Could it possibly be? He thought of Pam, in the condo this morning, she standing there as he opened his eyes in a half-stupor, he not truly certain if awake and giving himself a bit of a reality test to help answer the very common question: am I dreaming or is this real?

  He took no time now to search for an answer. Awake or not right now, the threat was still very real and dangerous, and he needed to find a way to escape it. So in his rolling thoughts, and his desire to flee the darkening woodland, Richard raced forward as quickly as possible, sidestepping brambles and roots and copses, at last nearing the edge of the woods.

  The trees thinned, and the late-afternoon sun brightened the environment ahead. In the distance he saw a few homes, each separated by a stretch of hedges providing natural privacy for the residents. Looking nervously about, he slowly made his way from the purple shadows into the backyard of one of the homes.

  The house was quaint, a shingled ranch with a circular brick patio and sliding doors. A pair of French windows looked out on either sides of the doors, the curtains drawn, indicating to Richard that if anyone was home, they hadn’t spotted him yet.

  He stepped forward, out into the open. With the sun falling across the greater part of the backyard, he felt as if he were a performer suddenly thrust in the spotlight, his lines long lost and forgotten. Cupping his hands around his face, he quickly he ran to the side of the house--exit stage left--skirting a loose garden hose before slipping on a wet patch of grass. Staying low, he scrambled to his feet and made his way into the street, standing up as nonchalantly as possible upon reaching the curb. He brushed his clothing free of dirt and bark. He looked up and down the short neighborhood block and saw no one. But that would change, he knew. Children would be arriving home from school, and their parents would soon be taking part in the five o’clock rush hour.

  Luckily, with no one present to bear witness to his evasive behavior, he was able to dart eagerly across the street into the backyard of another house. He immediately crouched along a row of flowerless azaleas in effort to blend into the environment, moving until he reached the woods behind the house. He pressed on in this manner, utilizing this method of ‘dart and dodge’ in the more visible areas, being very careful not to allow himself to be seen. On three occasions he’d spotted individuals in their yards, a woman playing basketball, an elderly gentleman tending to his vegetable garden, and two young children engaged in a game of kickball. But each had been too involved with their activity to take any notice of him. He wandered for thirty minutes in this fashion, traveling nearly a mile until he found his way into the backyard of the house he knew he’d end up coming to. At one point he never thought he’d make it. But now was thankful to be here.

  The house he used to live in.

  Where Samantha lived now.

  Clues

  Although he’d known both Leonard and Kevin for a number of years, George Washburn stood and eyed the two cops suspiciously as they entered Delaney’s office. Wearing a rumpled smock a size too large, rubber gloves, a brown shirt, and a green and white striped tie, he looked as if he’d bought his clothes at a gag novelty shop. He wasn’t very good-looking either, pug-nosed and tiny-eyed, his permanently leery gaze was something all of Fairview’s police joked incessantly about.

  “Don’t worry George, I won’t contaminate anything.” It took some effort for Leonard to get the words out, feeling his gorge rise at the stench of the bodily fluids hanging densely in the air.

  To George’s credit, the man was passionate about his work, and even though he’d never tackled a scene quite this disturbing, Captain Reese knew his all-in-one forensic scientist and pathologist would unearth every meaningful clue, leaving the more sensational items for the detectives to toy with.

  “The body can go to the lab,” George said, approaching Leonard. “Got a few hairs off it, is all. Pretty clean job, if you ask me. Guy was prepared, knew exactly what to do, and how to go about doing it.”

  “You find any clothing?” Kevin asked. “We think the suspect may have changed his clothes before leaving.”

  “There’s nothing here other than what the victim’s wearing.” George placed some paper bags into his briefcase, then pulled out a larger one which he opened, showing a large steak knife inside. Streaks of blood coated the blade and the lip of the bag. “This here’s your murder weapon. Cuisinart. Eight inch blade. From a kitchen set. At first glance I’d say there’s more than a healthy supply of prints on it, which is rather strange since the killer was very careful not to leave anything else behind. Guy did a real number on the victim. Multiple lacerations to face, throat, torso, arms--”

  “Whoa, George...are you kidding me?” Leonard felt a rush of discomfort, sprinkled with disbelief. Was Richard Sparke capable of such an act? he wondered. The question haunted Leonard yet again as the severity of the exploit rose to even higher proportions.

  George contemplated Leonard with his usual serious stare. The man never smiled, and never kidded anyone. That much Leonard already knew, and was earnestly reaffirmed. Finally George said, “Pathology won’t be removing the body for another half hour. There’s plenty of time to see for yourself.”

  Leonard grinned, knowing very well that George’s use of the term ‘pathology’ meant the current intern on loan from Fairview Community College. “Appreciate it, George.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll be checking the knife for prints. I’ve got multiple photos of the scene which will be developed right away. I also took a few books that had some blood on them. Samples will be scraped and sent to the city lab tonight. I’ll have the photos, blow-ups of the prints, the knife, and the books on your desk in a couple of hours.“ He walked past
Leonard.

  “Hey, wait a minute...what do you mean my desk?” Leonard looked at Captain Reese. “Am I correct to assume that--”

  “Yes, you are correct,” Reese said. “It’s your case. Yours too, Hughes. Make good of it.”

  Leonard raised his eyebrows, as if to ask why? Even though he’d wanted the case all along, to be officially on it was a bit daunting. Up until now, he’d reported to no one, and had completed no paperwork. He’d worked solely on instinct, following a cat-and-mouse-type scenario that he could’ve left alone if he decided it wasn’t worth pursuing further. Now the whole world would know about Richard Sparke. And it would be Leonard Moldofsky’s responsibility to come up with answers that only he, at the moment, knew any of the questions to. This was front-page stuff. His heart started pounding at the thought of reporters waiting outside his home for a glimpse of the ‘man in charge’.

  “You did work with Sparke two years ago, no?” Reese asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then you’re the best man for the job. Familiarity is a cop’s best friend. Now get to work. I expect a preliminary in the morning.”

  “What about Sparke? Any idea where he might be headed?” Kevin asked.

  “An APB was put out in all surrounding towns. And I’ve got extra men from the Fire Department looking for him here in Fairview. He won’t get far.”

  Leonard was about to say, He told us this morning that he didn’t know how to drive, but opening his mouth would prove a disaster because it was clear Captain Reese hadn’t checked today’s logs yet, and didn’t see that Moldofsky and Hughes had paid a call to Sparke’s place of residence this morning. That would take a lot of explaining, and additional paperwork, something they didn’t have time for right now.