The Cleopatra Murders

by Mic Palmer

  “That’s it,” shouted Gomez. Lifting the boy to a standing position by the arm, he began dragging him to his room.

  “I don’t have to take this shit,” said the boy, smacking his father’s hands from his body.

  A crazy look came over Gomez’s face, and the boy took a step back. He knew he had gone too far.

  Taking off his belt and folding it over, in what seemed to be one seamless motion, Gomez whipped at the couch, while pointing towards the boy’s bedroom. “You want to be stupid – do it in your room – go ahead – get up there – and don’t talk to me until you wise up!”

  “Ok,” whined the boy, and within moments Jack could see a second floor light go on. Now at his desk, the child was clearly upset. Nevertheless, he cracked his math book.

  Still in the living room, Gomez paced back and forth, wondering whether he should let it go.

  “Talk to him,” instructed his wife, and soon he was knocking on the boy’s door.

  “What do you want?”

  “I just want to talk. I don’t like the way we left things.”

  Not knowing what was said or what the tone was, Jack feared another confrontation. He even thought of calling Gomez’s house pretending that he was a neighbor, to help cool things off, but instead of a fight, what he saw was his friend put his hand on the boy’s shoulder as he kissed the top of his head.

  A mischievous grin irresistibly filled the child’s face, as he belatedly realized that he had dodged a bullet.

  After all of this, Jack felt a bit guilty about stealing the plates, but the fact was that he had no choice. Fortunately, things went smoothly. The vehicle was in the backyard, just where he remembered, and within minutes he was gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Union Square was abuzz with hungry patrons and boisterous revelers, most of whom were young and playful, which until just a few years ago might have provoked a twinge of insouciant empathy or at the very least curiosity, but nowadays they might as well have been insects. Without the slightest bit of vicarious interest, Jack diligently searched for a cheap garage, amnesic to the fact that not long ago he was just as impulsive and loud as very people he now found so obnoxious.

  “Get the hell out of the way,” he grumbled, as a group of dapper young men loitered in front of his vehicle. Oblivious to the world, they chatted and giggled, all the while bobbing their heads up and down to glance at their phones.

  It was at that point that Jack saw his youthful revels for what they were, mere memories. Watching the jaunty pack driven creatures on the other side of the glass, he found them alien, incomprehensible, bizarre, making the idea of going back to Mexico now seem laughable.

  “What species are they?” Jack wondered, amazed that they had managed to survive this long, and that’s when it dawned on him.

  The past was dead. Whatever he had once held in common with these kids had long ago disappeared. There was something frivolous about them, something repetitive, something boring – not that he was any kind of iconoclast. If he were, maybe things would have been different. Maybe he even could’ve made it as an artist, but the truth was that he wasn’t, and no amount of youth bashing was going to change that. “Who am I to talk?” he quietly chided.

  Although cheaper hotels were available in the Bronx or Queens, he wanted to stay in an area that was crowded and noisy, a place full of artists, musicians, hustlers, vagabonds, addicts and exhibitionists, somewhere in other words where a white guy with blue black hair and eyebrows like Boris Karloff was less likely to stand out.

  The price, however, wouldn’t be cheap. Finally finding a spot off Thompson Street, he was forced to lay down $350 dollars for the night and another $500 as a security deposit, but that was the price for paying in cash.

  What he got in return unfortunately wasn’t much. For the bed was lumpy and the room stunk of cigarettes. Despite it all, however, he was thankful to finally have somewhere to crash.

  Although only Ten o’clock, he quickly fell into a fitful slumber not unlike that which one might experience following the death of a loved one or the end of a relationship. Invading every thought and dream, his living nightmare pressed down upon his lungs like the foot of a pachyderm, and just when he’d forget about it and feel somewhat normal, there it was again, crushing him, chocking him, smothering the life out of him.

  There were too many things to do, too many decisions to make, too many choices, any one of which could mean the difference between life and death. Feeling as though he needed to crawl out of his own skin, he tossed and turned until finally the first chards of light made their way through the curtains.

  Although covered in a thick coat of musk, which even he found offensive, the fever had passed – the reason being that he had spent the night examining, dissecting, embellishing, and transmogrifying not only what had occurred but what was likely to occur.

  All at once he began to feel not only relieved but restful. Believing that he had tortured himself with every possible scenario, he had reached the point where nothing seemed to matter, and so finally he slept, deeply, almost anesthetically, with a head that felt tight and heavy, especially between the eyes, where some sort of gland seemed to periodically well up and secrete the very same chemical that bears produce when hibernating.

  The sun had been out for hours now, but he refused to budge. He had missed his moment. His clock had reset itself. Even if he wanted to get up, he couldn’t. With a riot of soporific hormones pressing against his constricted brow, he felt weak and dizzy, and yet there was something pleasant about it.

  “This must be what it feels like to die,” he carelessly reflected. Feeling as though he were gently floating over the bed, his will seemed to have taken flight from the used up lump of flesh that was his body, leaving him with the contradictory yet simultaneous sensation that it was about to collapse into itself under its own weight.

  His sleep at this point turned active, even violent, filled with intense colors and images, many of which involved death. The glandular anesthesia it seemed had begun to wear off and now there was blood on his hands. In fact it was all over him, even in his mouth, but instead of making him sick, he rather liked it.

  Convulsing as if he were hit with a defibrillator, he struck his hand against the headboard.

  After saying he’d get up at noon, he soon amended it to two, then three, then five, but for the life of him, he couldn’t move – the reason being that once he did he’d again have to start making decisions, which to him at this point was about as appealing as running into a burning building.

  As it was, he had already made more important choices in the last 24 hours than he had in a year. Until now, however, he had barely given it a second thought. Did he actually dye his hair, paint his car, and escape certain death at the hands of a bunch of drug dealers? Maybe there was hope for him yet, but first he’d have to get out of bed.

  Taking his first step, his knee buckled and he staggered into the wall. Fortunately, the urge to urinate was more powerful than the urge to hop back into bed, and by the time he was done, his head was clear enough to get on with his day.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The light in the bathroom was bright, revealing the many lines he had developed, especially about the eyes. Splashing his face with cold water, he felt better – for a moment at least – but then his precariously stacked vertebrae began to settle upon the once fluffy but now desiccated cushions between them, sending a sharp jolt down his left leg.

  “Hell,” he griped, as he reached for his spine, the muscles of which had begun pulling and tugging in an effort to gird the area from further harm. Mornings were usually difficult, but today he was practically crippled.

  “I should have known,” he told himself, having stupidly believed that he had escaped the episode in the Bronx unscathed.

  Examining himself in the mirror, he decided to dye his beard, which since Friday had grown in rather nicely. There was something it seemed about a bad night’s sleep that sped up the pr
ocess, as if the body responds to stress by making one appear more brutish, more fearsome, thereby masking one’s deficits. In any event, he was now glad that he had neglected to shave during the days before he was fired.

  Again the dye called for an allergy test, but this time he complied, and thankfully there were no harmful side effects. The next step, therefore, was to apply the gel, which according to the manufacturer would result in a luscious, natural looking beard in just seven minutes.

  Being that his whiskers were a mysterious, asymmetrical mixture of blonde, red and grey, he almost looked forward to coloring them. Shaving, moreover, had always been a grind. Now, however, he could just wake up in the morning and get going, without having to look at his ever growing jowls and neck. Indeed, the prospect of wearing a mask made him feel less accountable, less self conscious, less blocked. Even so, he was short on ideas. Was it all a coincidence or was he being framed?

  “Not horrible,” he mumbled, having washed out the jet black goop. Certainly, he looked better, or at least less artificial, than the ridiculously incongruous man on the box. But for the beard itself, the model they used had the smooth, prepubescent skin of an altar boy. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even appear capable of growing facial hair, making the absurd thickness of his whiskers almost comical, like a prop from a variety show.

  “Now what?” Jack wondered.

  It was Sunday evening, and as always the television was blaring, but as of yet there were no new reports, which for now at least was for the best. Without being able to account for his whereabouts, a new attack would only make matters worse.

  To resolve this problem he decided to spend as much time as possible in public places such as bars and restaurants. That way, when the killer did reappear, he’d have an alibi.

  What concerned him, however, was the fact that soon his picture would be released to millions of people some of whom would no doubt be able to see past his disguise.

  Pondering this for a moment, Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at the number of times he had observed a criminal being caught based on an artist’s rendition that looked nothing like the actual person, but in a city of millions, there’d always be a few with supernatural powers, even if their only ability was to spot people depicted in police sketches.

  This being the case, Jack decided to keep a low profile. Rather than establishing his alibi by allowing others to observe him, he’d do it through careful study and when possible, photographs. Blending into to a bar or restaurant, he’d scrutinize the staff, listen to what they had to say, watch their movements, anything he might be able to use to confirm his whereabouts. Better yet he’d periodically take pictures with the spy pen he had purchased for his surveillance work, preferably with a television in the background, as a kind of time stamp.

  Although not quite the recipe for catching the killer he had hoped for, it was at least a start. Until he could figure out his next move, he’d bide his time establishing alibis, even if it meant having to down a few drinks.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bill Butler managed to look concerned yet fascinated in a neat blue suit that matched the spots on his otherwise yellow tie. He had a wide mouth, stiff grey eyes and a chin just angular enough to make you listen, but too small to convince you of anything.

  Although nearly a week had passed since the murders, it was a slow news cycle, meaning that Butler would do his best to keep the story going. Juxtaposed with different shots of the carpets and victims, he interviewed a rather fetching psychologist who sometimes worked for the police.

  Wearing her hair up in a bun, she affected narrow glasses, green mascara, and dark red lip gloss. Her large soft caramel colored eyes widened as she spoke, as if she were visualizing what to say. “The killer,” she nasally intoned, “would appear to be extremely insecure, pathologically fatalistic, and constitutionally incapable of asserting himself.”

  “Fatalistic?” asked the reporter.

  “He thinks life’s unfair.”

  “Hmm, what else can you tell us?”

  “Most likely he has a spotty educational history and little in the way of vocational achievement. Around women he feels cowed, belittled, intimidated, which is why he acts out. It gives him a sense that he’s in charge.”

  With an angry voice and doleful eyes, the reporter appeared convincingly indignant. “But why the mutilation? Why not just kill and be done with it?”

  “In his mind the more complicated the murder – the more ritualistic – the more he feels that he’s executing a plan.”

  “It sounds like he believes he’s accomplishing something.”

  “Yes,” noted the psychologist, happy that he recalled this from the two minutes of preparation they had. “It both prolongs and intensifies his sense of control.”

  “And what better way,” went on the white haired journalist, “to feel one’s oats – for lack of a better term – than to imagine subjugating someone like Cleopatra.”

  “Exactly,” said the woman, “but it’s more than just a matter of control. Although the photos of the more violent killing haven’t yet been released, I’ve seen them, and they’re quite nauseating. As you’ve reported, upon removing the feet and breasts, he finished up by mutilating the vagina. You don’t have to be a psychologist to know that he doesn’t like women.”

  “But why?” Bill Butler pleaded, through thin but sincere lips.

  “Oh, it could be anything. Bad parental relations, a sense of alienation, occupational failures, sexual failures – the list goes on and on – but let’s not forgot the possibility of a biological component. Some people are just born with certain tendencies.”

  “But how does a person reach this point. How does he turn into a serial killer? I mean he doesn’t start out that way, or does he?”

  “Baby steps. He tries something – probably an act of violence against a small animal or another child – and he likes it. He likes the way it makes him feel, he likes the sense of power, the rush, the sense of transgression even, but it’s like a drug. What worked yesterday suddenly isn’t enough.”

  “And how long does this usually take – I mean before they graduate to murder?”

  “The majority are fairly young – most likely in their twenties – but others manage to live exceedingly normal lives. Although damaged in some way, they’re propped up by their jobs, their family, but then a stressor occurs that disturbs their support structure…”

  From the corner of the quiet little bar he had been frequenting over the last few days Jack massaged his brow with the heel of his palm. It all sounded reasonable enough, but a bit too neat. Without being able to put his finger on it, he sensed a contradiction.

  Chapter Twenty

  With a towel in hand, the bartender watched as one of his patrons attempted to balance a full bottle of beer on the tip of his index finger. “Keep it over the bar,” he instructed. “I don’t want glass all over the floor.”

  “Great,” thought Jack, snapping a quick photo with his pen. This was just the type of pointless yet memorable display that would eventually clear his name.

  “Ten seconds!” declared the bartender, his coconut biceps flexing in excitement. “Congratulations, you did it!”

  “You owe me a drink,” grunted the customer, as he pumped his puny arm. Approximately the same height and weight as the bartender, he was the sad embodiment of time and gravity. With most of his mass having fallen toward the floor, his chest was now in his waist and his buttocks where his thighs should have been, giving him the unhealthy look of a penguin, complete with streaky black hair and a long pointy snout, but instead of a tuxedo, he was dressed in grey slacks and a white tee shirt. “Come on, pay up.”

  Having watched the man go through dozens of beers at three times the rate he normally would – all because of this stupid challenge – the bartender was only too glad to comply. “Why don’t you finish the one you have first?” he told him, in a high squeaky voice.

  “Maybe I’d like to treat my friend o
ver here,” he slurred, as he offered Jack his hand. “The name’s Will. How ya do’n?”

  Normally, Jack would have taken an out of the way table, but none were available, so he had to position himself at the end of the bar. “That’s alright,” he told the odd looking fellow, with a light shake of his hand.

  “Come on. I insist. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Arthur,” Jack said, without making eye contact. “But really, don’t worry about it.”

  Will stared at Jack’s glass. He appeared mesmerized. “You’re almost empty.”

  “Tell you what,” said the well muscled server, “his drink’s on the house as well. How ya like that?”

  “Ya see,” said the odd shaped man, inscrutable in his meaning. Having gulped down what remained of his bottle, he slammed it on the bar and picked up a menu.

  Jack ordered a vodka and tonic, but aside from a quick “thanks” tried to keep to himself.

  While the place was quiet enough to hear what other people were saying, it wasn’t quite busy enough to placate Jack’s insecurities about being noticed, but the night was still young and the place was beginning to pick up.

  Just another pub with a wooden floor, coffered ceiling, and orange white and green flag abutting second Avenue, it was loaded with nearly a dozen television screens, which drew in not only the gamblers, but the loners, many of whom looked upon the eclectic choice of programming like a group of old friends.

  “You know what you want yet?” asked the bartender.

  “Give me a second,” Will hiccoughed. “I’m dyslexic.”

  The bartender was surprised. “Is that true?”

  “That’s what they told me.”

  “That’s where you see the words backwards, right?”

  “Not really. I just have trouble reading – something with the brain and how it processes information.”