After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1)

by Cary Allen Stone

  Believing he was in control of another dangerous murderer, he rambled on, and speculated.

  “All that needs to be resolved in your mind is would anybody know? Who else knew you were coming here, Mrs. Abrams? Is there a surveillance system inside this enormous house? Did you leave fingerprints on the glass, the door? There’s a lot to think about, and you haven’t had time to think it all through—my murder that is.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you want. What am I supposed to do, drop to my knees, while you’re aroused with unsubstantiated suspicion?”

  “Is sex all that flight attendants think about?”

  The smirk disappeared from his face. He stared at her with a piercing, burning look. As clearly, and coldly, as he could, he spoke.

  “I want you to kill Mrs. Abrams for me.”

  It was finally out in the open. The unmistakable words came out of the respected, successful, and talented Dr. Thaddeus Abrams—a trusted pillar of society. How disappointing, she thought.

  He’s insane.

  To Abrams, Lori seemed confused and lost about his last statement. He wasn’t sure what to do, if she didn’t go along with his plan. He tensed until she spoke.

  “If you’re right about me, and I’m capable of such dreadful behavior, what makes you think I would do such a thing to your wife––for you?”

  Abrams smiled, relieved to hear the question. He leaned closer to her. His hand waved around the room.

  “Because Lori, she’s the only thing that stands between you and me. You kill her, and all of this is yours. In return for doing away with the annoying, predatory, and domineering Mrs. Abrams—you will enjoy a lifetime of me, untold wealth, security, and free consultations.”

  “You can’t walk the walk, so you want me to walk it for you. And in return for my cooperation, you’re going to let me share in your wealth?”

  She pulled at her lower lip with an index finger. Once again, she was convinced men were nothing more than testosterone-loaded, perverted animals that would say and do whatever necessary, to get what they wanted. The others had paid dearly for their arrogance. One thing was clear in her mind. Another male control freak was going to die.

  Abrams felt somewhat relieved. She was at least considering his diabolical plan. He needed to push her to close the deal. He wanted to make it clear he was in charge.

  “Well not exactly share the wealth, more like use the wealth. You are correct. I can’t walk the walk. I don’t have to, because I have you. Now talking the talk I can do, down at police headquarters.”

  He gave her time to consider his proposal. She paced the spacious room with its ornate, expensive décor. She pretended to give his scheme her undivided attention, while the clock ticked down in her head. As she studied the various displayed artifacts, a familiar voice spoke to her.

  They’re all the same. He’s just one more shining example of how disgusting men really are. You know what to do. You have my blessing, and my permission.

  Until then, she felt cornered, trapped, and caged. Now that she had permission, it would be easy. Men were predictable. A simple mood swing was all she needed. He was a better-than-average-looking man, with beautiful eyes. She knew she would actually enjoy playing him. Mentally she prepared to be convincing.

  “You would want me. Do you mean that?”

  How many times do I have to play this game?

  “I offer you my heart, and my soul. After all, you and I are going to burn in hell together. Might as well enjoy ourselves in this life.”

  He waited patiently for her to answer.

  “You don’t even know me, nothing about my life except...”

  She played her role perfectly.

  “I knew all about Mrs. Abrams, the social register, family history, moods and sexual needs. We’ve been married for many years. Love had nothing to do with it. I married her for the money. I’ll be filthy rich when the insurance company pays off on her carcass.”

  Abrams held out his empty glass for her to refill. Deferring to him, she took it and approached the bar. He continued.

  “I’m not looking for love. I’m in it purely for the money, and the pleasure it brings me––us.”

  She decided to take the chance no one knew she was there. It didn’t make sense he would have told anyone she would be there, or be crazy enough to record the conversation. Abrams was still blustering when she dropped the pill into his glass. He took the replenished, tainted drink from her as she queried him.

  “What assurances do I have, that after the fact, I will actually be sharing all of this opulence with you?”

  She thumbed through his CD collection while waiting for his answer. She was astonished to find her favorite, The Cult— Beyond Good and Evil. Bocelli had long since ended, and she replaced his music with hers. She pressed number three and play.

  Thaddeus believed he had convinced her to kill his wife. He was feeling safe, and secure, but a little light-headed.

  “You don’t get assurances. You simply have to trust me.”

  He slurred the last two words. As he finished his drink, Lori watched his small head take control. She walked over to him and knelt down at his feet. With perfection, she played the role of seductress.

  “After the evil, I feel release, freedom. It feels good, better than sex.”

  She paused to let his imagination run wild.

  “Daddy taught me. He taught me how to be a bad little girl. Do you want to see? Just thinking about it makes me so hot.”

  He felt invincible as he watched her stroke his thighs. He controlled her, and she was going to give him everything he ever dreamed of. The room spun around once, twice then out of control. He blacked out, returned in a haze, and blacked out again. When he briefly came to, he tried pushing her away, but the push was limp. Fighting her was pointless. He lost advantage. His arms flailed in random directions, but it was too late. The special evening Dr. Abrams had planned with Lori was over. His last breath included a death rattle. “Thaddeus” was written with his blood on the wall. Before she left, she made sure the room was clean. They found him lying in a pool of his own blood. His severed cock was lying beneath the bloody blade protruding from his heart. Lori had to kill “daddy” again. She succeeded, but still she didn’t climax.

  She made the call to 9-1-1 immediately after she found him. A shocked and horrified Mrs. Anna Abrams, barely heard the sirens, or noticed the police officers rushing in. It would be a while until she was not considered the prime suspect, but it was less than an hour since Lori had gone. Ironically, it would be much later when Anna would collect a substantial sum from the insurance company.

  His eyes fixed and open, Dr. Abrams became the star of the macabre crime scene. Newton was right. A body at rest tended to stay at rest. The phrase was uttered by at least one of the investigators, sometime during the evening. Most of the personnel present at the investigation knew the doctor, but not one understood why he, of all people, would be the victim of a homicide. At 11:42 P.M., the Medical Examiner pronounced Thaddeus Abrams officially dead.

  Edward Fairchild surveyed the crime scene.

  “Where is he?”

  “Still out on medical leave, Ed,” Harmon said.

  “I don’t care. Drag him if you have to.”

  It wasn’t that Fairchild was a heartless man. He simply needed the best investigator the department had. Harmon walked off to a less chaotic area, and pretended to make the call on his cell phone. He pretended, because he knew Jake wouldn’t pick up.

  Jurisdiction once again passed from local to federal, when Agent Mika Scott arrived. The fact that the victim’s name was written in blood was the reason. To the FBI agents assigned to the case, the murderer had become known as the “Who’s Your Daddy” killer.

  * * *

  My torn bathrobe open, unshaved, hunched over and drooping like a Neanderthal, I’m pathetic in my current state of existence. Nudged by some unknown force, I reach down, and pick up the morning paper. Flicking it open, I
see what I missed while comatose. Rubbing my eyes harder doesn’t help to clear them. The effects of the sleeping pills linger.

  Newspapers have always been full of bad news. The big world outside was forever coming apart. There is enough on my plate, with my own little world crumbling, that I can do without reading the paper, but a particular sensational headline clears my cloudy vision.

  Local Psychiatrist Murdered

  Dr. Thaddeus Abrams, prominent local psychiatrist, was found murdered by his wife Anna. Special Agent Mika Scott with the Federal Bureau of Investigation was quoted as saying…

  Ouch, I didn’t like Abrams much as a person, or a shrink, but he was all I had. The article spews the grisly details. My hand slaps my forehead. In my first flashback, she had just arrived at the precinct as a new officer with a ton of spirit, fearlessness, and attitude. She wanted desperately to make the world right. She was never at a loss for words when defending her beliefs. My second flashback was of an incredible intimate moment we shared. Mika was completely unafraid to expose her sensuality and passion. She cherished romance, loving, and being a woman. I loved with her, but I’m a man. I was afraid to take the next step and it cost me.

  * * *

  Mika hadn’t seen her previous boss since she left for Quantico, and a career with the feds. His hair, since then, had thinned and turned completely white. His familiar political smile still blinded. His cobalt-blue eyes still mesmerized her. Fifty, but built like a burly, young Turk, Ed acknowledged his protégé inside CID—the Criminal Investigation Division, with a warm hug.

  “You look wonderful, Special Agent Scott.”

  Fairchild’s reputation for fairness was legendary on the force. As long as you paid attention to your safety and well-being on the street, and followed Fairchild’s rules, everything was fine. If you made a mistake and admitted it, he would back you up all the way. If you didn’t confess your sin, Ed made sure you were in Hell. He made you an example. It was rare anyone repeated the same mistake.

  He took Mika under his wing when she arrived fresh out of the academy. It was his intention to protect her from the wolves. She was as attractive, as the day she first arrived for duty in a wholesome, didn’t-need-makeup kind of way. Most of her contemporaries found her to be a hardened, clawed feline, until they got to know her. Ed just thought she was determined and feisty.

  She mouthed a humble “thank you” and then was caught off guard by the change in his demeanor and tone.

  “And just what the hell do you think you’re doing pulling jurisdiction over my people, My guys are more than capable of solving this case,” Ed said.

  “Besides why so much interest in a local murder from the FBI?”

  She tried to ease the blow, but wasn’t about to be steamrolled either.

  “Ed, have you been following this on CNN? The M.O. is the same in every case. The victims are prominent, powerful, authoritative men from congressmen, to Catholic priests, and now a psychiatrist. Our killer is off and running. The murders are coming closer together. I have a string of murders that cross state lines. That’s why the FBI is involved.”

  Harmon, with a case file tucked under his arm, interrupted their meeting when he saw her. Harmon was a big man. With a single hand, he could crush the skull of a human being. He liked to say that he had a Rice Krispie punch. Snap––the head goes back. Crackle––the facial bones crack. Pop––down he goes never to come back. He affectionately raised Mika off her feet in a big bear hug. After placing her back on the earth, he looked her up and down. She was Jake’s partner before him.

  “Mika, you’re looking good momma. What are you doing here? Come back to steal my boy away?”

  The three former compatriots laughed aloud, each reliving cherished memories in their own thoughts. As the laughter ceased, an uneasy silence surrounded them.

  “How is he?” Mika said.

  Blackwell and Fairchild exchanged quick looks. It didn’t require great intelligence to know something wasn’t right. Harmon did his best to answer.

  “Good...yeah, good...well, maybe not good, but—okay. I mean, well maybe not okay, I mean.”

  He sounded like Mr. Kimble tripping over his thoughts in the television show, Green Acres. He saw the concern grow in her face.

  “He took a hard fall. It’s not been pretty, but you know Jake, he’ll pull through.”

  Fairchild interrupted Harmon.

  “Did you make the call?

  “No answer. I’m going there right after this. I’ll give it my personal, face-to-face sir, and report back with said subject with all due haste. In fact, I’m out of here.”

  Harmon rotated in the opposite direction, but didn’t leave until he gave Mika another workplace squeeze.

  “Later, baby.”

  Fairchild watched Mika watch Harmon head down the corridor. When she turned back toward him, he just shrugged.

  “Come on, Mika, I’ve got a lot of work to do if I have to baby sit the FBI.”

  She looked back down the corridor.

  “Right, there’s a lot of work to do.”

  3

  The medical examiner, a gremlin of a man in his early sixties, was anxious to explain the special nuances of performing an autopsy to his newest assistant. The enthusiastic young student hung on every syllable as if his career depended on it. It did.

  “You can hear what they’re saying if you know how to listen,” Moss said.

  “A forensic pathologist is a physician trained in criminal investigation. Are you writing this down?”

  Few of the other medical professionals there paid any attention to the gremlin anymore. He craved the spotlight, so they let him break in the new ones. The clinical and dire setting of the morgue caused Dr. Moss to do his best to keep it as upbeat as could, to take the edge off. The tiled room was Antarctica, with extra-bright lights in the ceiling. The two of them wore Plexiglas visors. The chemical smell, the discoloration of the human skin, and the fact a man had been murdered was just some of the gruesome details they had to deal with.

  As he spoke into the microphone hanging over the cold, dead man lying on the even colder stainless steel examination table, a recording of his findings was made. For some stupid reason, the man would mimic a Gestapo voice then he would lean over the cadaver’s mouth as if the dead could answer.

  “How are you feeling today, a little achy, muscles stiff? Got a little gas?”

  He thought he was hilarious. With scalpel in hand, Dr. Moss proceeded with the “Y” incision. He recited the exact location of the incision he was making.

  “Left shoulder, drag, split the nips, raise, and right shoulder.”

  It sounded like a workout video, or dance instructions. Moss glanced at his new recruit to see if he was still standing. Most observers fainted, or dropped to the floor to puke. From the right shoulder, he started another deep incision that continued straight down toward the genitals. In this case, the victim’s genitals were missing from their original location, and lying in a plastic bag at the end of the table. The assistant followed closely with his nose noting the escaping gas from the body cavity wasn’t as strong as it should have been. When queried about it, Moss explained the open wound had allowed most of the gases to escape at the crime scene.

  Moss also explained the difference between a slash, and stab knife attack. The student simply looked on and didn’t seem fazed at all. Moss figured he’d surely get to him when he reached in with both hands and popped the victim’s brain out later. If the “Y” incision didn’t get them, popping brain always did. Moss waited for a laugh when he said he might take the man’s larger organ home to surprise his wife. None came. Dr. Moss could only hope his next assistant had a sense of humor. The job was tough enough without one.

  “What do you think God would say about what we’re doing?” the student said.

  Dr. Moss stopped, held the scalpel straight up, and considered the question. Then he let loose.

  “There is no God. I couldn’t do what I do, if I b
elieved there was. People do horrible things to each other all of the time. Nothing stops them. If there was a loving, all-knowing, merciful God, why would He allow that?”

  The student considered Moss’s answer. He wisely let it go. Their visors met.

  “You’re right, doctor, there is no God.”

  The future pathologist nodded toward the forensic pathologist who wasn’t quite sure if the assistant was for real, or just jerking him. It didn’t matter. It was time to get back to the gruesome task he had started. A murderer was running loose on the outside. Moss needed to finish the autopsy. After the “Y” incision, Moss began sectioning the organs. Tissue color and stomach contents were next. A ladle was used to scoop out the contents of the stomach. Plain brown paper bags wrapped around both hands were removed. The CST’s had bagged them to preserve fingerprints, and any other evidence present beneath the fingernails. There didn’t appear to be any defensive wounds. Moss made a special note.

  Identification in this particular case was not in question. Dr. Moss knew Thaddeus Abrams personally. Moss agreed that dental x-rays for identification would be overkill, but he still planned to have the forensic odontologist make an impression. He thought that statement was hysterical, so he laughed. The student just nodded.

  Well into his first autopsy, Moss’s assistant mentally prepared himself for what was coming next. He had heard it was dreadful, but it would not compare to what he witnessed. Moss moved to the head of the table. A body was a body, but a face was different. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, words had come out of the mouth, and thoughts circulated in the dead man’s head. The smile on his face distinguished the man from others. After making an incision along the curvature of Abrams’s hairline, Moss folded back the face. With the electric saw elevated, he buzzed through the skull. A fine white dust filtered up into the surrounding airspace. It was similar to working on a home project in the garage. Archaic as it seemed, Moss chiseled away the skullcap. It made a popping sound and flew up. The assistant caught it inflight. Out came Abrams’s brain and Moss held it up to the light as if he had delivered a child.