Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  “Ah, probably nothing. The officer who took the call said it sounded like some kid. The caller claimed there was a dead body in your apartment. He wasn’t on the phone long enough for it to be traced.”

  “Huh.” Leon grinned, even as he felt his lips twitching. “As you can see…” Leon spread his hands. “No bodies here.”

  “I suppose not. Is there anyone you can think of who might’ve made this call? Or why they’d do it?”

  “Honestly, no. I’m as puzzled as you are.” Leon knew exactly who made the phone call.

  “Yeah, as I said, it’s probably a prank call.” He sucked his lips in before letting them out with a pop. “I have enough problems on my hands without having to chase after every prank phone call, but it’s the nature of my business.” Behind him, the refrigerator hummed to life. Sidarski stared at the appliance. His hand fell onto the handle, stroking it like a pet. “Thought you were thirsty.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said you were gonna get a bottle of water.”

  “I was out. Thought I had some, but…”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Um…no.”

  Sidarski opened the refrigerator. “Huh. Lotsa water in here.”

  Leon stepped forward to peer over his shoulder. “Guess so. I’m just flustered, Detective. Really, I mean…I don’t get a visit from a police detective every day.”

  “Would hope not. Do I see blood?”

  “Don’t doubt it. Some hamburger went bad. Didn’t get around to cooking it in time.”

  “Uh-huh. Happens to me a lot.” He strolled over to the sink. “Your trash in here?” Leon nodded. Sidarski squatted, opening several cabinets. He pulled the trashcan out. Producing a pencil and brandishing it like a magic wand, he poked around the can’s contents. He stood up, grimacing as if in pain. “Yep, found your bad hamburger. Where do you work, Mr. Gribble?”

  “MacReady & Associates. It’s an accounting firm in Corporate Woods.”

  The detective scribbled in a small notebook before pocketing it. “Okay. I’ve taken enough of your time. Sorry for the inconvenience.” He extended his hand. Leon shook it firmly. With a stone face, Sidarski wiped Leon’s palm sweat onto his jacket. “Let me know if you receive any phone calls or anything out of the ordinary.” He handed Leon a business card.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Sidarski took another glance—a narrow-eyed searching one—around the apartment on his way to the door.

  “Goodnight, Detective.”

  “Good night, Mr. Gribble.” Leon shut the door, nearly collapsing against it. He peeked through the peephole. Sidarski stood still, no hurry to leave. He stared at the bottom of the door. Leon jumped to the side, hoping his shadow hadn’t given him away. When Leon dared to look outside again, the detective had left.

  Leon raced to the kitchen sink, his stomach heaving. He almost didn’t make it in time. When he was done, he mopped his mouth and face with a towel. Then he strapped on a pair of kitchen gloves, went outside, and retrieved the head from the alleyway. Using a heavy duty sponge and some cleanser, he scrubbed the blood from the vegetable hamper. The sight of the blood made him dry heave again. Generally he avoided blood at all costs. Unusual for his line of work. He had his reasons.

  Goddamn kid. The stupid, arrogant kid put him on the local police’s radar. A position he never wanted to be in and up until now had managed to avoid.

  Risky or not, he had to complete his project that night. From past experience, he knew if he didn’t give into these urges he’d become reckless, sloppy—dangerous to himself. And, now more than ever, he couldn’t afford to take any chances.

  The kid first, though. He needed to deal with the kid. If he wanted to play games, he picked the wrong man to play with.

  Leon scrubbed the blood, his temper flaring. The vegetable rack tray broke with an icy crack. Goddamn him! Not only did he put Leon on the police’s radar—he broke his refrigerator. And he contaminated Leon’s chicken breasts.

  * * *

  Over the years, Leon had taught himself the fundamentals of computer hacking. While he worked at Filber, Jennings and Associates, he soaked up everything he could from the IT team, a sponge, even learning how to gain entry into law enforcement databases. Scary, really, how much experienced computer experts knew. Of course, Leon couldn’t compare to Skeeter, LMI’s go-to computer guru, but he knew his way around a computer. Tracking down Cody Spangler’s address via his license plate number proved relatively simple.

  Nearly seven-thirty and darkness had fallen. Leon rolled his Volvo into the Meadowlakes apartment complex. The green van sat beneath an awning not far from Cody’s apartment. Leon parked in front of the building next to Cody’s. Empty automobiles packed the lot, no people strolling after dark. But abundant life occupied the apartments, a string of vibrant Christmas tree lights.

  Despite the warm weather, Leon tugged on a stocking cap and tightened his overcoat. After a quick run-through of his lock-picking kit, he snapped on his leather gloves before grabbing the gruesome parcel out of the trunk.

  The van carried no decals announcing an alarm, essential in their line of work. Stupid of the kid, but it’d make Leon’s work easier. Surely, LMI supplied Cody with the van as they’d done all of Leon’s automobiles. Surprising they hadn’t installed an alarm.

  Leon gripped a penlight between his teeth and knelt down at the back doors. The third key from his stainless steel auto jiggler set unlocked the door. Behind the front seats two industrial sized plastic paint containers bookended a large toolbox. Several tarps and plastic wrapping lay against the opposite side. Leon hopped into the cabin and pulled the head (now wrapped in a towel) from the trash bag. Dried blood stained the towel where the woman’s neck had been cut, a macabre connect-the-dots pattern.

  Leon yanked, freeing the head from the blood-matted towel. A shudder of revulsion tore through him. He wedged the head tight between a paint container and the van’s wall. Ensuring its stability, he prodded it several times with a finger. Secured and locked down.

  After he closed the doors, he held the towel over the left taillight and kicked the lamp out. For a moment, Leon wondered if breaking both taillights might be overkill. Remembering his vegetable tray, he thought, sometimes overkill’s just fine. With a great deal of satisfaction, he bashed out the other taillight. Didn’t even use the towel this time, either.

  Leon tossed the towel and garbage bag into the closest dumpster and left to complete his current project.

  * * *

  After every kill, Cody felt pent up, frustrated—sex always relieved his tension. He never had sex with his victims, though. Very uncool. No, sex with an unrelated hottie provided the dessert to his main course. An unbeatable buffet of pleasures.

  The idiots Cody worked with told him to check out the Power and Light District, a string of bars in downtown Kansas City, Missouri. Apparently, the place to pick up chicks.

  Cody grinned at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, liked what he saw, and flexed a bicep for his imaginary admirers. After the ceremonial splashing of cologne, he drew his hoodie top tight. On second thought, he’d have better luck with it down. Let the ladies see him, give ‘em a thrill.

  More than anything, he wished he could’ve been a fly on the wall when the cops showed up at the old man’s apartment. He imagined Gribble’s shock when the cops found the head. Priceless. Teach him to screw with the Denver Decapitator.

  Frankly, it blew him away the story hadn’t made the news yet. Didn’t matter. It’d be on the news tomorrow.

  Cody grabbed his keys, locked the front door, and hurried to his van. Kansas was shaping up to be a hell of a lot more fun than he thought possible.

  * * *

  Leon drummed his fingers over the steering wheel. It took four trips around the block before a parking spot opened up close to John Smeltzer’s silver BMW. He thought he’d never catch a break, but he’d learned to corral patience, use it to his advantage.

 
The dimly lit lot sat snug between two buildings, hiding him from any street traffic. No security cameras in sight. Most of the small neighboring shops—specialty stores specializing in beads, candles, and other niche items—closed at six o’clock. Only the drinkers at Vraney’s kept the block alive this time of night.

  Now the waiting game began, surely the tenth circle of Hell. Stalking his target for weeks before finalizing the deal felt like a short amount of time in comparison. The anticipation—the excitement—of the kill made him antsy, an uncomfortably thrilling sensation. Of course, the danger of being caught put him more on edge, teetering on the precipice. Part of him liked that feeling, too. Even though he tried to deny it.

  The visit from the detective—and the unexpected “gift” in the refrigerator—tainted his enjoyment. Or tried to. He pushed the incident away, shoveled it to the back of his brain. Stupid? Perhaps, probably so, okay, fine, without a doubt. But he had to finish the job. Had to.

  Leon checked his watch. Nine-thirty. Smeltzer should be leaving Vraney’s at any moment.

  Like clockwork, Smeltzer rounded the corner, stumbling. His shirt half-tucked, he held his arms out straight—as straight as he could muster—for balance. Now with his drink on, he probably had his mind set on beating his kids for a while. Never again. Not after tonight.

  Smeltzer bounced into a parked car, steadying himself against it. He shook his head and laughed into the sky, a private joke shared between him and his god, Bacchus. A mental note, Leon added drunk driving to Smeltzer’s crimes against humanity.

  Leon left his car, syringe needle palmed in his gloved hand. Smeltzer staggered forward, his drunken gaze wandering. Leon lunged. The needle slid into Smeltzer’s thick neck. The drunk man yelped, slapping his neck as if bee-stung.

  “What the hell?”

  The dosage of azaperone usually worked in seconds, but sometimes the projects fought back. Especially the big ones like Smeltzer.

  Smeltzer raised his ham hock of a hand and lashed out. The blow bit into Leon’s chin, forcing him back against his car. Smeltzer lurched toward Leon, his gait more unstable than before. He clawed at the air, a grizzly bear. Leon ducked and wheeled. Smeltzer fell onto the hood of Leon’s car with a hollow thump. Leon clamped one hand over Smeltzer’s mouth, pinching his nose shut with the other. He pinned Smeltzer to the car with his full body weight. Smeltzer flailed about before sleep finally took him.

  Now Leon had 275 pounds of drunken dead weight on his hands. He dreaded wrestling Smeltzer into his car. He hadn’t thought this through, went in unprepared, rushed the project. Stupid and dangerous.

  Leon managed to wedge himself underneath Smeltzer’s arm and hoist him up. When Leon’s knees buckled, he let go. Smeltzer slithered to the ground. Grabbing Smeltzer’s legs, he dragged him across the pavement. With one last surge, Leon pushed him up and onto the back seat. Leon collapsed on top of him, both of their feet sticking out the door, a nightmarish Lover’s Lane scenario.

  After he pried Smeltzer’s knees up, Leon closed the door. He slipped a trash bag over Smeltzer’s head, pulling the drawstring tight. Leon sat upon the soon to be dead man’s chest, his hands tightening around Smeltzer’s neck. A muffled scream erupted. The bag sucked in, blew out, did it again. Leon squeezed harder as the abuser rocked beneath him. Arms thrashed about, one fist punching Leon’s chest. Leon leaned in, held on, and rode Smeltzer like a jockey. Smeltzer’s feet kicked at the car door, pushing it open. Leon slammed Smeltzer’s head up and down onto the seat. The bag adhered to Smeltzer’s features one final time, giving him the appearance of a badly burned corpse. Leon rested on top of him for a few minutes longer, ensuring his business dealings with John Smeltzer were, once and for all, finalized.

  * * *

  As Cody rounded the corner onto Merriam Lane, he heard a tump in the back of the van. Something rolled with every turn he made, sounding like a deflated basketball flopping down a steep incline. At a red light, he chunked the van into park and flipped the light on in the cabin.

  “Fuck me!” The woman’s head lay on its side, her dead eyes looking up at him. “Son of a bitch.”

  Stay cool. Get the van off the street first thing. Down the road, the familiar green and yellow lights of a Stop-Mart beckoned to him.

  Cody gunned into the far right lane. His hands shook over the steering wheel. A first for him; he never lost his nerve. Never.

  A high-pitched shriek rose from behind him, a police siren. Cherries lit up his rearview mirror. His throat dried out, a large lump refusing to go down. Something had to be done fast.

  Cody yanked the van to the side of the road. In his mirror, he watched the policeman exiting his car, speaking into a radio. Cody flew out of his seat, snatched the head and scurried back to the paint canisters. Sealed tight. He grabbed a screwdriver from his tool case, his fist trembling like a drying out drunk’s. The screwdriver jimmied underneath the lid. Scrhhh. It slipped out, shivving into his hand.

  “Shit!” Blood seeped from his wound. Ignoring the pain, he managed to pop the can’s top off. He threw the head in and pressed down on the lid. No time to seal it properly. As soon as he jumped back into the driver’s seat, the cop arrived by his window as big as the badge allowed him to be.

  Cody rolled the window down. “What’s the problem, officer? I wasn’t speeding or nothin’.”

  The policeman peered into the van. “Are you aware your taillights are out, sir?”

  “What? No! Ah, no, sir.”

  “License and registration, please.”

  “Sure, yeah, let me get them.” Cody dug out his wallet. “Here ya’ go.” As he reached into the glove box, the cop’s light followed his every move. “There’s the registration.” His hand flapped the paper over the windowsill, a kite in a wind storm. Cody thrust his hands underneath his legs, stilling his tremors. His knees bounced to a silent song of panic.

  “Have you been drinking, sir?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No, I’m new to town. I was just gonna’ check out some of the local digs, yo.” He forced a smile. The policeman didn’t return it.

  “What’s in the back of the van, Mr. Grainger?” The cop leaned inside the window, spreading the beam around.

  “Um, nothing. Just some paint supplies and crap. I work at a paint place in Kansas City, Kansas.”

  “Step out of the vehicle, please.” The cop backed up, a hand perched over his holstered pistol.

  “Dude, seriously, I didn’t do nothin’! And there’s nothin’ in the van.” Cody fumbled for the door handle then stepped out.

  “Would you mind opening the van, sir?”

  “Man, look—”

  “Open the van, please, sir,” the cop repeated.

  “You got a warrant?” A last ditch effort, but it always worked on the cop shows Cody watched.

  “I don’t need one, sir, if I have probable cause to search your van.” A slow smile swam across his face. “Your broken taillights and your odd behavior, not to mention your hesitance in opening up the van, are more than probable cause.”

  “Man, you’re wastin’ your time, yo! I didn’t do nothin’. And I told you, there’s nothin’ in there but paint shit.”

  “Just open it, sir.”

  As they walked toward the back of the van, Cody’s legs grew heavy, sludging through swamplands. The cop stayed several paces behind, spotlighting Cody with his flashlight.

  Cody dropped his keys, stalling, waiting for inspiration, a burning bush. Anything. He bent over, glanced at the officer underneath his arm, thought about jumping the cop. Not at this distance. He’d be gunned down in seconds.

  Hesitantly, Cody opened the doors.

  “Get into the van and head toward the front, please.”

  Cody jumped in. “It’s like I told ya’. Just paint supplies.” He risked a quick look at the paint canister, half-expecting the woman’s head to bob up and toss off the lid.

  The policeman widened the arc of light thr
ough the cabin. “Is this…soundproofed? Why would you need to soundproof your vehicle?”

  “Dude…my band’s gonna’ set up a mobile recording unit here.” An inspired lie, Cody thought, but the cop still looked skeptical.

  “Uh-huh.” The flashlight lit upon a dark stain on the wooden platform. “Is that…blood?”

  “It’s paint. Or, maybe it’s from my cut…on my hand.” Cody waved his hand for validation.

  “Yeah? How’d you cut yourself?”

  “My screwdriver slipped when I opened one of the cans.”

  “Please open the canisters, Mr. Grainger.”

  “It’s just paint, yo! My boss’ll get pissed if I do.”

  “Do it. Now!”

  “Shit,” Cody muttered. Working the screwdriver around the paint-filled can, he cracked it open. “See? Paint.” He gestured for the policeman to come over.

  The cop inched warily toward him, his fingertips caressing the gun butt. He stopped a few feet away. With one foot lifted behind him (dainty as a dancer, Cody thought), the cop bent over and looked into the canister. “Okay. Now, the other one.”

  Jesus Christ! A balls-out escape plan, that’s what he needed. He’d ram the screwdriver into the cop’s neck. Not the greatest plan, and it was dumb taking out a cop, but self-preservation trumped everything. He had to lure the cop closer. “Man, this can’s a real bitch to open. I can save us both a lot of hassle and just tell you it’s paint.”

  “You’re going to need to show me. I’m from Missouri.”

  Even though he’d already loosened the lid, Cody pretended to struggle with it. He groaned, shimmied the screwdriver tip around. Finally, he spread his hands in a defeated manner, looking for a last-minute reprieve. The cop jutted his chin once. Cody pulled the top off. The woman’s nose poked out of the blue paint. Her blue-streaked eyes gazed heavenward. She looked oddly at peace, floating, smiling at him as if to say, “You’re gonna pay for it now.”