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

by Cary Allen Stone

  The student felt like retching, but needed the job. He remained standing. He also wondered if there were any last thoughts trapped inside the exposed brain. Completing the autopsy, Moss and the new kid labeled the blood, saliva and semen samples. DNA would be analyzed. All Thomas Moss had to do was write the report, which would cross the desk of his impatient and easily annoyed boss. The demands of the position made the coroner a man who wouldn’t hesitate for a second to impale anyone who approached him at the wrong time, with shoddy work.

  * * *

  The cacophony outside Ed’s office door included scratching computer printers, humming computer terminals, ringing telephones, and fax machines. The “homelesscide” were there too––homicide detectives with no home lives because they were dedicated. They scurried from desk to desk, while conspiring to stop the bad boys. The third-floor residence of the homicide division was chaotic. It always was. Ed loved everything about it. He was the glue that held it all together. Framed over his desk were the words “Myth of Full Enforcement.” They were in bold red letters. It was a constant reminder to him that not all of the law was applied equally to everybody, and in spite of all of the efforts of the good guys, some of the bad boys would get away. It was ugly and dirty out there on the street, but he did his best to make it all work. He shouted from his office door. Heads rose and it got quiet fast.

  “People. I want you to go out of the box on this one, beyond basic police work. Above all, keep your heads. Do not, I repeat, do not jeopardize this investigation in any way. This is part of a federal investigation, and I don’t want this department to look incompetent in front of the feds.

  He paused.

  “Also, most of us knew Dr. Abrams. He’s been a friend of this department for years. He has been there for many of us when we needed him. For that, and for the sake of his wife, Anna, I want this perp found and brought to justice. Now you all have work to do. I want all detectives in briefing room A in ten minutes.”

  They scattered like ants with their heads down, each multitasking. All detectives within earshot of Fairchild’s command hustled to the briefing room. Special Agent Mika Scott stood outside room A’s doorway. Ed joined her there. Fairchild marveled to her.

  “The place has filled up since you left, with energetic, aggressive females proving they can do the same job as a man.”

  “Do you have a problem with that?” Mika said.

  “Should I?”

  He thought about it a moment then shrugged.

  “The complaining is the same.”

  Beneath the bright, buzzing, fluorescent ceiling lights, Fairchild asked her if she thought it was quite a climb to the third floor. He was referring to the floor they were on, and the elevator that the architect neglected to add because the city refused to pay for it. She didn’t care about the elevator.

  “It’s a tougher climb into a man’s world.”

  “Get anything out of the National Crime Database?” Ed said.

  “I checked right before I came up. Nothing we didn’t already have.”

  “You can start without me. I’ve got some calls to make.”

  Ed watched his subordinates file past then disappeared into his office. Mika walked confidently into the briefing room. Another FBI agent followed her in and quickly took a seat after closing the door behind him. The male detectives in attendance noted Mika’s striking features and strut. One whispered to another.

  “Monumental pair of credentials.”

  “And an amazing pair of qualifications.”

  The rest surmised she was sharp, intelligent and prepared. Taking the hint from the second agent, everyone sat down and stopped talking.

  “Good morning. My name is Mika Scott. I’m a special agent and profiler with the FBI. I even worked right here for Captain Fairchild at one time.”

  She added a stern warning.

  “If any of you harbor any ‘misogyny’ keep it to yourselves. For those of you with a limited vocabulary, that means a hatred of women as a group. We have something far more important to deal with than gender squabbles.”

  She looked at each of them to reinforce her point.

  “We want to apprehend a serial killer before he kills again.”

  Both female detectives present gave a thumbs-up.

  “Our most conservative estimates state that murder is on the rise across the nation. Serial killing, in particular, is becoming a national pastime. Humans are natural predators. Up until recently that predatory nature has been controlled, and kept in check by law, religion and television. Our over-entertained society seems bored with simulated death. Now there are calls for televised reality executions on death row.”

  She paged through her notes.

  “Background, you should know. Serial killers come from all occupations. You would suspect they are psychotic, or deranged, and some are, but mostly they are your everyday variety human, with a significantly low score in the feelings and compassion categories. Some of them actually believe what they are doing is normal and justified. I see a hand.”

  A male detective had an observation he wanted cleared up.

  “You seem highly emotional about this case, Agent Scott.”

  “Yes, I am. I’ve been with the families of the victims––all of them. They want closure. Our killer is increasing his activity. The various crime scenes I’ve ben to, suggest sadistic tendencies with sexual overtones. I want this one stopped and put away.”

  Another agent slipped into the room and stood off to the side deferring to Mika. He was holding some papers. She smiled at him then studied the detective’s faces for reactions.

  “Statistically, eighty-five percent are male; eighty-two percent Caucasian; fifteen percent are African-American; a mere two-point-five Hispanic and the remainder is Native American or Asian. They’re normally between the ages of twenty-two and fifty years old. Eighty-seven percent are loners. It’s rare to find one that is McNaughten Rule insane.”

  Ed spots me as he leaves the briefing room, and makes his way toward his office. I just entered through the double doors at the end of the corridor. He waves me over. Along the way, I say hello to several of my peers before reaching his doorway. The grip of his handshake is firm. Some guys feel the need to turn it up hard to establish control early on, but not Ed. His eyes are those of a professional hunter and warrior––eyes that see you in a crowded stadium. They were eyes that noted every characteristic, scar and tattoo. Standing before him, you could almost see the mental notes he was writing in perfect penmanship.

  “Roberts, you’re abusing the payroll.”

  “Stealing is a necessary form of survival. Steal a little, all of the time. Steal a lot, and do the time.”

  “You’re a lawman,” Ed said.

  He isn’t quiet during all of this. Most of the department is listening in on our private talk. Using well-chosen words from his body language, Fairchild sits on the edge of his desk and towers over me. There is no doubt he is in command. I take it all in, the sights, the sounds and the smoke from his cigar.

  “Did you got your act together yet?”

  It’s clear to me that my tactic of blatant disrespect, isn’t working and wearing him down like I thought it would. I‘m no longer too proud to try for sympathy, so I go for the man’s heart.

  “I can’t seem to shake the nightmares, feel like I’m on my seventh, eighth and maybe even my ninth wind. She was a kid, Ed.”

  He puffs and the smoke rises and disperses into the fluorescent lights.

  “So were the two jerk-off kids from Columbine, what did they have? Semiautomatics and Uzis! Fuck her. You play hard, you die hard.”

  Fairchild’s been around. I’m not going to get anywhere with him. He gets off the edge of his desk, and does an end run back to his high-backed leather chair, where he positions himself for more intimidation of me. He leans forward.

  “I want you on this case. I need a problem solver with initiative.”

  “What you’re asking of me is hard.”


  “Yes it is, but it’s the hard that matters.”

  He stares me down. He prepares to hit me with the next punch.

  “You’ll be working with Mika.”

  “That’s impossible, we still have issues.”

  “Get over it.”

  I think about her. I always felt at peace when I was with her. She knows all of my secrets, weaknesses. She understands my inner, whining child. Mika somehow knows how to heal me. She is calm water to my battling raging seas. I need her more than ever.

  Fairchild interrupts my thoughts.

  “Don’t you have something more important to do besides harass an old man?”

  I fight back the word no. Ed shuffles papers on his desk. I ask meekly as I get up and head for the door.

  “Where is she?”

  “Briefing room A, remember where it is? Glad to have you back, Jake. You’re one of the best. I need you, son.”

  Whatever small amount of pride I have left begins ever so slightly to grow. I leave without saying another word. Without signaling, I cut into an open lane in the hallway’s rush hour traffic. Taking the off ramp to the briefing room, I feel as if I had been gone more than just a few days. As the door to the briefing room opens, everybody looks to see who is brainless enough to show up late. I take a seat in the back, close to the door as I can get. After my butt is in the chair, Mika restarts the briefing. I can only hope she notices the sentimental look in my eyes.

  “Our serial killer is geographically transient, like a Theodore Bundy, or Henry Lee Lucas. He’s intelligent, and has kept us guessing. He’s done his homework. He is familiar with our methods and tactics. The crime scenes are clean, antiseptic actually. Two things tie them all together. One, the victim’s first name is written above the head in the victim’s blood. Two, the victim’s genitalia is castrated.”

  A hand is seen in the front row.

  “Castrated?”

  He made a notation on his legal pad as he spoke. He’s new to homicide. He believes it was the perfect time to establish a rapport with Mika. Besides, Mika is hot, and he wanted to hear her say more about the victim’s genitals in her sexy voice.

  “Can you expand on that, Agent Scott?”

  Having spent a great deal of her career among the lower animals of the species, well aware of how juvenile they become whenever sex was the subject, Mika answered unnerved.

  “The perp cuts off the victim’s dick, detective.”

  She waited, knowing what was coming next.

  “Thank you, Agent Scott. Would it be true then our perp is not only a murderer, but a homosexual as well?”

  “Very possible, detective. Do you have any special insight to offer us about such tendencies?”

  She was clearly the top seed in the match. The paralyzed detective was left without a witty retort. The rest of the group proceeded to harass him with conjecture, catcalls, and whistles. After they settled down, Mika drove home the more gruesome details for our digestion.

  “Our perpetrator appears to be motivated by anger, hate, and a desire to dominate. It’s likely he experienced physical, or sexual abuse early on in his life, and is seeking revenge for it. Usually serial killers are control freaks, just like most of you.”

  That one did not go over well, but she wasn’t interested in their affection as much as their respect. She softened the blow.

  “Well, like all of us.”

  Their startled faces smoothed out.

  “The murders are brutal and savage. He inflicts psychological punishments along with physical punishments. The victim struggles and our boy gets off on it.”

  She scanned the room.

  “Any more questions?”

  I know better, I really do, but I can’t stop. It’s like a joke that rumbles around inside your head and has to be let out. I raise my hand. She has no choice, but to call on me.

  “Yes detective?”

  “Did they teach you all of that in Quantico?”

  I ask with a perfect touch of sarcasm. She gives me the arctic stare. Fortunately for me, Fairchild walks in and interrupts with his usual philosophical speech regarding incarceration.

  “And none of them ever finds Jesus, or has a change of heart, until they are in the slammer and somebody’s wife.”

  He is the Chief, so he gets applause and thumbs up.

  “Yeah, yeah, you have a copy of all the current data in those files in front of you. Get out there and make me proud.”

  * * *

  She floated with her eyes closed. Her toes protruded from the calm water like two miniature periscopes. Her outstretched arms waved slightly. There was no one else around. The water was warm and soothing. All she wanted was to float on her back down stream forever. She was completely relaxed, more relaxed than she had been for quite some time. The feel of the water wasn’t right. It felt more like oil, or syrup.

  She opened her eyes to look at it and saw she was floating in a sea of blood. Startled, Lori awoke from her deep sleep, and quickly looked at the red digital numbers of the alarm clock on the nightstand. They said it was 3:23 A.M.

  Where am I?

  The room was dark, except for some light coming from the street through the crack in the curtains. It was a common occurrence for someone who traveled as much as a flight attendant. Often crews experience a momentary loss in space and time. Cities and hotels, dates and time zones, become a blur.

  Oh yeah, Philadelphia.

  Lori thought about the dream of floating in blood. She knew the psychological ramifications of it. It was amazing how the subconscious worked. Knowing it would be difficult to fall back to sleep again until her 5:00 A.M. wake-up call, she decided to read. The only thing available was a magazine she had found left behind by a passenger on her flight.

  The magazine, MAXIM, had an article about bizarre murders. Lori used the article as a source of reference, or comparison, to see how far she had gone over the edge. She had read right before nodding off to sleep.

  Erzebet Bathory, Hungarian countess, killed 600 girls, bathed in their blood, and then had her servants lick her clean.

  Gilles de Rais, French protector of Joan of Arc, killed 800 boys and then performed necrophilia acts on their bodies.

  Roman rulers had wild animals ravage humans, while the empress Messalina would masturbate. From previous research, she learned that ritual killing was performed in order to consume the better human qualities of the dead. What wasn’t clear was whether the bad qualities were swallowed, along with the good. She laughed aloud when she read about revenge murder. The husband had put his wife in the oven, and baked her. When the police arrived, he was found laughing hysterically. She thought about her abusive ex-husband.

  * * *

  The look on her face told me I was in deep trouble. The pointed toe and lean on the hip punctuated by the crossed arms. Yeah, I was going to get it good. I was going on trial right there in the hallway in front of my peers. Legal counsel would not be provided. Contrite sounded like a good approach right now, a good suggestion.

  “Good to see you, Mika. Harmon told me you were here.”

  It feels like I’m ten years old again. Inside my cranium, I watch the stream of words forming into sentences then slide toward my mouth. Each of them is carefully scrutinized by some kind of verbal-quality-assurance mini-Jake. Then the motion picture of one particular night we shared begins. The opening credits warn me about the rating.

  Her thrusts made the wind spill from my lungs. Her contractions were powerful.

  Establishing some common ground by rebuilding on our past relationship might have helped, but she sensed it coming, and her eyes said not to go there. What I should do is fall on my knees to the hallway floor and beg her for forgiveness. I decide to drop the personal and go with the practical.

  “Look, I believe we can still work together, we’re professionals. And, I think we’re still friends.”

  I take my shot. Shifting her weight, she rotates to a more controlling stance. Her raised
eyebrows scrunches down and rest over a serious face. She looks stunning in her business suit.

  Stop it, Jake,

  “Did you have to belittle me in front of them?”

  The level of anger in her voice is deafening, but the words are a forced whisper through grit teeth. A strong retort would help, but the basic male grunt comes out.

  “Huh?”

  “I have a job to do, and it doesn’t help one damn bit for you to walk in late and make wiseass remarks.”

  The best thing would be to take the high road and apologize. The worst is to disregard my inner sensitive female, and let my testosterone speak for me.

  “Why did you leave, Mika?”

  I reject the high road. I use a tactic I learned long ago, probably as long ago as in a classroom with the nuns. If asked a difficult question, buy time by asking a question. I also want to hear her answer, again. Mika’s eyebrows crunch and she gives me an “I gave you a chance” expression. She answers with an annoying, rising inflection used by teenage girls.

  “Because Jake, you had a significant issue with commitment.”

  It worked. I use it on Fairchild and it always works. It worked on the street during investigations. My briefing room behavior is now the furthest thing from her mind.

  “And don’t try that ask-a-question nonsense with me––I know you.”

  On the outside, I simply raise both eyes. On the inside, the bells and whistles look like an arcade.

  Run, Jake, run.

  “Well what do you expect from a poor Native American boy from a poverty-stricken reservation?”

  “Please, are you still using that?”

  Turn it up, Jake.

  “I guess it started in the orphanage––the commitment thing.”

  My smile disappears as my head droops.

  “When you start out alone, you don’t think anyone really cares.”

  Slowly look up at her, Jake.

  “I cared, my parents cared. You just couldn’t see it.”

  Her tone is less caustic this time. As a detective, I detect a shift toward sympathetic understanding. I push the envelope.