Grimm: The Chopping Block

by John Passarella

  Between the corkboard, plastic wall racks, one long table with stacks of neon paper, and the information desk itself, the place was a sea of flyers, pamphlets, newsletters and business cards. Nobody asked permission. When the quantity became too heavy, they tossed expired event information first, followed by items that looked particularly old. The community center had no surveillance equipment, but Nick hadn’t looked forward to the idea of spending several more hours zipping through days of footage only to see the concealed figure pop in, pin flyers to the board, and hurry out, while revealing nothing identifiable about himself.

  Nick really had come to a dead end.

  He drove back to the precinct with the grainy image of the large man in a hoodie and sunglasses. The net result of a day’s worth of investigation.

  * * *

  Back at the precinct, Nick swung by his desk to check for messages, saw that Wu had stopped by while he was out, and checked in with Captain Renard, showing him the security camera image of the hooded figure and the four versions of the circle-and-triangles flyer.

  “Anything to connect the four locations to the murders?”

  “Library, supermarket, bank and a community center,” Nick said and shook his head. “Other than places that let people leave information for others, I don’t see it.”

  “No chance those places are involved?”

  “Community center… possibly,” Nick said. “The others seem unlikely.”

  “We need something to connect Crawford and the flyers to the murders,” Renard said. “Nothing incriminating on the flyers themselves.”

  “Something on Crawford’s computer,” Nick said. “I’ll get an update from the techs. Barring that, we may need a search warrant for Crawford’s residence.”

  “Hank mentioned it,” Renard said. “Let me know if you need me to run interference.”

  Nick returned to the conference room with the burial site boards and long table piled with missing person folders. Hank sat on one side of the table taking notes. He looked up when Nick entered and said, “Checked with Monroe. Nothing registered. Got the impression he’d research it later.”

  Before Nick took a seat, Sergeant Wu arrived and stood in the doorway.

  “Good. Got you both together. Checked with computer techs. Most of the data on the hard drive is encrypted or corrupted by the partial wipe, so it’s slow going. So far, nothing incriminating.”

  “Something is definitely there,” Nick said. “He had that computer ready for wiping the second anybody discovered his involvement in the murders.”

  “There are leasing records, information on various business sites, copies of contracts, but nothing criminal—other than some of the rates they were charging.”

  “The restaurant equipment is key,” Nick said. “Crawford had no intention of opening that restaurant. They need to focus on any names or addresses or activity related to those orders, other than the orders themselves or the supplier.”

  “Any mention of the driver by name?” Hank said. “Crawford claimed to have never met the man. Prior knowledge would be a red flag.”

  “I’ll check with them,” Wu said. “But at this point, corruption and encryption are bogging down information retrieval.”

  “What about Nancy, the receptionist?” Nick asked. “She might have a copy of the encryption key or at least know where Crawford kept it.”

  “They asked her,” Wu said. “She denied any knowledge of it. They also checked her hard drive, which wasn’t encrypted, and came up empty. Looks like Crawford kept her in the dark.”

  “Same with his own family,” Hank commented. “No idea about the flyers or the so-called specialists treating his illness.”

  “What about Rio?” Nick asked. “Crawford indicated this happened before, a long time ago in Rio, and that he participated. That’s why they contacted him.”

  “Right,” Hank said, remembering that part of the conversation. He picked up the phone and called the Crawford residence. As it rang, he placed the call on speaker.

  After a half-dozen rings, a woman answered—Ellen Crawford—her voice a bit raw. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Crawford, this is Detective Griffin,” Hank said. He apologized for the intrusion during a difficult time. “As I said earlier, I want to find the people who drove your husband to this desperate act.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. How can I help?”

  “Your husband mentioned something about a trip to Rio,” Hank said. “Rio de Janeiro, I assume. Do you recall that trip?”

  “Lamar mentioned that he had been to Rio on vacation once,” she said. “But that was long before we were married. As far as I know, he traveled there alone.”

  “Do you know when that trip occurred?”

  A few moments of silence. “I’m not sure,” she said. “More than twenty years ago.”

  “Did he bring anything back? Pictures? Souvenirs? Anything?”

  “I haven’t seen any photos from that trip,” she said. “That was at least three homes ago. If anything remains, it might be in an unopened box in the attic. But my husband isn’t—wasn’t sentimental about that kind of thing. I doubt he would have carted that stuff from house to house. But, if you want, I could check.”

  By the tone of her voice, she dreaded the idea of rifling through musty old boxes of her husband’s forgotten belongings. Considering what she had to deal with in the present, Nick couldn’t blame her.

  Hank cleared his throat.

  “This could be important,” he said. “If you’re not up to it, I could swing by—at a convenient time—and check those boxes for you.”

  “No, that’s okay,” she said, resigned. “I’ll check for any unmarked boxes in storage.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Hank said. “And, again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said and disconnected.

  Hank set the phone in the cradle and shook his head. “Not promising.”

  “I’ll report back on the techs,” Wu said and left the conference room.

  Nick looked up at the two side-by-side bulletin boards with the photos and names of identified victims.

  “Few more identified from the second site,” he commented. “Any leads?”

  “Been on the phone, notifying next of kin,” Hank said. “And checking again with whoever was last to see them alive. Nothing. If they’d seen anything suspicious at the time of the abductions, it would have been noted in the files.”

  Nick spread out the four versions of the flyer. Each had an address to a location where another copy of the flyer could be found. He had a hard time believing that any of the four public locations hosted nefarious activity during business hours or after hours. The symbol had to mean something to someone.

  And there was one place he hadn’t checked.

  Hank noticed Nick staring at the flyers and said, “Wild goose chase?”

  “We’re missing the significance of these,” Nick said, gathering up the flyers. “One place left to check.”

  “Aunt Marie’s trailer?”

  Nick nodded. “You coming?”

  “Got a few more calls to make.”

  “I find anything, I’ll let you know.”

  As Nick walked out, Hank picked up the phone again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Nishimura Koji sat slumped against the basement wall, the iron collar heavy around his neck, his right eye swollen where he’d been elbowed by his abductor in his attempt to escape.

  He’d left work after finishing the evening shift at Office Silo, an office supply chain store, but never made it to his car. He hadn’t seen his kidnapper since he’d been dumped in the basement with the other chained prisoners. But a different man had come to the basement on several occasions, dragging one of them away to protests and screams. A massive man wearing some kind of hellish, horned mask to terrify them.

  As the hours passed, and the manacles and chains securing his wrists and ankles clanked with each slight movement, Nish
imura began to feel as if he were trapped in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. The sodden gag in his mouth was rancid, and the odors permeating the basement were nauseating.

  And yet, in the distance, coming from rooms above them, he heard the strains of classical music playing, each note drifting downward like pristine snow over a cesspool. If he paused in his movements, he could distinguish the harpsichord and cello, a viola and a flute.

  He’d had a girlfriend who’d loved classical music and she’d dragged him to various concerts over the course of their eighteen-month relationship. Since he was infatuated with her—for a time, anyway—he went to the concerts, listened to the CDs in the car and the playlists on her iPod blasting from her Bluetooth speakers. After ten minutes or so, he convinced himself that he was listening to Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 5. He hadn’t heard it in over a year—since his girlfriend had ditched him, rather than continue a long-distance relationship while she attended college.

  Now he had the crazy idea that she’d escaped the living nightmare in which he found himself trapped, carried away on musical notes far from danger, as if she’d anticipated this outcome. Illogically, he became mad at her—like a nightmare-induced grudge—for abandoning him to this fate.

  An equally irrational idea occurred to him, that if he could somehow make his way to the source of that pleasant music, he would leave this hell behind and return unscathed to the real world. Maybe even see Gillian again. He could move to the East Coast. Ithaca, New York, wasn’t so far away in the grand scheme of things. He fell into a dreamy daze, transported by the music, a faint smile on his face as he considered the changes he would make to take control of his life…

  Minutes, possibly hours, passed before the basement door opened and the steps creaked. He was startled out of his reverie as the horn-masked man came to collect another victim.

  But this time he came for Nishimura.

  * * *

  Upstairs, the elegant ground floor—featuring rooms with coffered ceilings and glittering chandeliers—had been turned into several dining rooms. Most of the guests milled about as candlelight reflected off their champagne flutes and wine glasses, chatting amiably. Classical music played in the background, piped through speakers concealed throughout the house, as they waited to be served their evening meal.

  The men wore bespoke suits or dinner jackets, the bejeweled women evening gowns fit for a red carpet lined with paparazzi and celebrity gossip columnists. But nobody would mistake those gathered for celebrities, though a few might have been considered stars in Fortune 500 boardrooms. While those in attendance enjoyed the finer things in life, they also enjoyed anonymity.

  For some in the Silver Plate Society, this was their second feasting ritual. A handful of those present had enjoyed two previous feasts. Of that number, two sat in wheelchairs, needing assistance to navigate the host’s sprawling house.

  Though the members exuded a sense of extravagant celebration, they also exchanged bittersweet knowing glances when Host escorted nonmembers, who had responded to the open invitations, to the back room. Empty Chair days meant that the feasts were winding down. And many of those present this time would not live long enough to attend the next official gathering.

  The classical music faded and a bell clanged three times. Conversations gave way to an expectant silence.

  A portly older gentleman in a chef’s hat and jacket wheeled out a large serving cart filled with covered silver dishes and silver serving trays. Though everyone addressed him as Chef, his current role in the society, most members knew his unspoken name: Oscar Cavendish.

  With a series of dramatic flourishes, he lifted the covers off the dishes one by one, announcing the menu as he did so, so the participants could choose their courses for the evening.

  “For your dining pleasure, I present Greek heart topped with capers, rocket greens, a fried egg, and a bordelaise sauce. Enjoy this one with sweetbreads in an offal croquette.”

  He revealed the next dish.

  “Or choose Korean tongue marinated in soy sauce and sugar, deep fried with garlic and pepper.”

  Someone asked, “Adult or juvenile?”

  “Both of these dishes come from hearty adults,” Cavendish said. “For those preferring juvenile cuisine, let me turn your attention to this next dish, Russian kidney served with a light arrachera sauce. And next we have…”

  After uncovering the specials, Cavendish placed them on the long banquet table so the guests could serve themselves. In the middle of that table, two severed human hands with painted fingernails had been arranged palms up to support a woman’s severed head. The head and hands served as a decorative centerpiece. The woman’s flesh and organs were not, however, featured on the evening’s menu.

  The remainder of Sheila Jenkins’ dismembered body had washed up in a tidal pool.

  “Meat?” someone called from the vicinity of the nonmember room.

  “Ah, for those of you skipping our organ specials tonight, we will have rib roast, sirloin, porterhouse and rump roast platters coming up shortly, adult and juvenile, in a variety of ethnicities, including Greek, Korean and Russian, with more savory choices coming later this evening. One and all, please enjoy your meals as we savor the last days of this quarter’s festival.”

  With that, Chef received a polite round of applause from the members, and somewhat of an uncouth whistle from the nonmember contingent. Chef smiled, bowed slightly, and returned to his kitchen.

  As the formally attired participants edged toward their preferred meal choices, they woged in delight, one after the other, almost in a ripple effect. The majority revealed themselves as Geiers, with a smattering of Coyotls and Schakal, with even greater Wesen variety in the nonmember section of the house.

  A short time later, one woman said to another, “Have you tried the Greek heart? It’s to die for!”

  “Well, somebody certainly did!”

  The first chuckled, delighted. “I heard they collected a whole family.”

  “Maybe the others will turn up in the later dishes,” the second said optimistically. “Certainly on the meat platters.”

  “The young are so sweet and tender,” the first commented. “It would be a crime to waste a single morsel.”

  “Don’t know about you,” the other whispered conspiratorially, “but I skipped breakfast and lunch so I could gorge myself tonight.”

  * * *

  He drove the speed limit, stopped at red lights, and signaled his turns to avoid any hint of law breaking. They got Al Capone for tax evasion. He had no intention of getting nabbed for reckless driving.

  As he approached the designated location, he signaled this one last turn and drove carefully into the dark alley. The hood of the white van gleamed under the sickly pallor of one weak light bulb over the rear door of some unidentifiable business. But the scant illumination succumbed to the surrounding darkness within a few feet of the door. A fading island of light.

  The van’s headlights cast twin cones of brightness directly ahead in the suffocating darkness, but could not banish the shadowy edges of the confined space. On the other side of the alley, he noticed a battered Dumpster, overflowing with refuse. As the van slowed to a stop, a dark silhouette stepped out from behind the far side of the Dumpster, raising a shielding forearm as he neared the headlight beams.

  Conscious of the possibility that he’d driven into a trap, the driver scanned the other man’s silhouette for any telltale signs of a firearm. Knives and hand-to-hand combat he could handle. Bullets flying out of the darkness were another matter.

  He leaned out the side window and addressed the other man.

  “You alone?”

  “Of course,” Ray Swartley said. “Ron’s in jail.”

  The brothers worked as a team, but that didn’t rule out the possibility of accomplices or hired guns.

  “And you got away,” the driver said. “Good for you, Ray. You want a gold star? I’m fresh out.”

  “No, I’m not—I asked y
ou to meet me because… I need your help.”

  “My help?” the driver asked. “Why should I help you?”

  “You know why.”

  “Do I?” he said menacingly.

  “You know…” Ray glanced around the alley, as if somebody might overhear him. “For looking the other way.”

  “You were paid to look the other way, Ray,” he said. “Your brother, too.”

  “It’s gone,” Ray said sheepishly.

  “What’s gone? Your money? How is that my problem?”

  “The cops confiscated it, along with our pills,” Ray said. “And they pinched Doc Filbert. I lost the money, the pills, and my source.”

  “Again, Ray, how is this my problem?”

  “I need some money,” Ray said. “To bail out Ron. Once he’s out, we’ll run. You’ll never see us again.”

  “You’ve already been paid, Ray,” he said. “I’m not a bank. Or a soft touch. And I’m not your friend. We conducted a business transaction and that transaction is over.”

  He shifted the van into reverse, but Ray reached out and grabbed the doorframe.

  “C’mon, I don’t need much money,” Ray wheedled. A sign of his desperation, Ray woged into his Reinigen form, his rat-like features twitching. “You know Ron and I would never talk. We’d never tell anybody you buried those bodies in the vacant lot. And once we leave town, the cops won’t even be able to find us to ask.”

  “Glad to hear you would never talk, Ray,” he said. “Because we had a deal. I paid you well to keep your damn mouth shut.”

  “Yeah—but—only thing is, with Ron locked up, the cops, they’re gonna put pressure on him to make a deal,” Ray said. “Hell, you know they’re gonna offer me a deal if I tell them what I know. Maybe one of those witness protection things. They’d hide us away good, and all we’d need to tell them was who buried those bodies.”

  “Changed my mind, Ray,” the driver said. “I’d like you to deliver a message to your brother.”

  “Sure. What’s the message?”

  He grabbed the automatic he’d placed on the car seat under his leg, pointed the barrel out the window at Ray—whose mouth dropped open in surprise—and blew a hole through his throat.