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

by Cary Allen Stone

  “You were lucky to have parents, someone to teach you about commitment.”

  Mika considers for a moment. Her head twists a little to the side, and her eyes glance down at her conservative 9Wests. Guilt has its good points. A look away enhances the moment.

  “My parents have always been there for me.”

  She’s almost apologetic. She glances from face to face, as strangers pass us in the corridor, until her eyes lock on mine. I lightly brush her hand.

  “Life has a way of punishing us for our mistakes. For the past few years, being without you has punished me. It’s been just me, and me.”

  I feel bad about making her feel guilty. I didn’t mean to drive the conversation into this turn. I just went into survival mode, because I’m swinging in the wind. Mika’s voice is gentle and low when she speaks.

  “Harmon told me about the girl.”

  She takes my hand.

  “You did what you had to, but just the same, I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can, well...”

  Swallowing hard, I sheepishly continue the attack.

  “Listen, I was way out of line in there, and I apologize. It really is good to see you.”

  The words I should have used earlier spill out.

  “Truth is Jake, I’ve missed you, too.”

  Silence, thought, a look, and a dramatic pause pass by.

  “But you must understand, I’ve been chasing this guy and I’m obsessed with caging him. Maybe after he’s caught...”

  Maybe?

  * * *

  Mika never exaggerates. What she says is exactly what she means. She also has that uncanny, womanly way of seeing even microscopic details, like picking out a flaw in a diamond. Men can’t do that and miss the details. A man is only cognizant of the big picture after the billboard falls on him. I’m not good at much, but I know details better than most, and I really am good at my job. At least Fairchild thinks so.

  “His simplicity clouds his complexity,” Mika says.

  My curiosity compels me to ask.

  “How do you know the killer’s a male?”

  I need to start at the beginning, so I can get a grip on what we are dealing with. For me, I need to place things in a logical order, or into an equation, so I can solve the problem. It’s why Harmon and I fool with science. Cold, hard facts fill in the empty spaces in the equations and timelines.

  “A woman couldn’t do this,” Mika says.

  She looks at the people, places, and cars going by, but focuses on some metaphysical nothingness beyond them.

  “P-M-S?”

  I offer it in order to understand. Mika smirks without looking at me.

  “That’s how you men see us, don’t you?”

  Levity takes the pressure off for me. One minute I’m analyzing blood and guts, and the next I’m doing one-liners on the corpse. It’s the same when I’m in a hospital, or a funeral parlor. The gravity of death brings out a nervous anxiety I have. Abrams probably knows the reason, but he is in no condition to explain it. What I do know is you can only wallow in human suffering for so long before you became cynical, sarcastic––and a comedian. Unless, you killed a girl whose entire life was ahead of her.

  We walk past the activity at the front desk where officers move in random directions in search of truth and justice. We push through the main doors of the house and head toward the parking garage. Along the way Mika describes the details of the “Who’s Your Daddy” case. I hang on every word deciphering, and sifting through her suppositions and intuitions about the killer. I guess she did learn a lot in Quantico. She is the expert now. I can learn a lot from her, if I don’t let my ego get in the way. The screeching tires of his unmarked car announce the arrival of Harmon who coincidently severs our path.

  “I’m driving, get in.”

  Without hesitation, we both grab a door handle and climb in. Mika’s briefing goes uninterrupted, and I pretend not to hear Harmon’s rants.

  “I hate when he drives. Man can’t see a stop sign, or a pedestrian. I can’t tell you how close we’ve come to running over everybody in this city, at one time, or another.”

  Detective Blackwell is large, and even larger in his opinions, but he is my partner. His abrupt arrival is replaced by a very conservative drive through the crime-breathing back streets. He knows a shortcut as we head toward Abrams’s mansion. Some of the graffiti on the buildings is quite artistic. I recognize some of the tags from my days chasing gangs.

  I just saw Abrams two days ago.

  “We should have gone the other way. This ‘hood’ has never even heard the word ‘po-lees’ because the police won’t come in here.”

  Harmon was maladjusted to our current location, but he had a reason to be. He knew these streets better than any other cop, because grew up here. While Harmon is concerned, I know he likes to check the working girls in their tight, short skirts and five-inch heels.

  “Oh momma, would you look at that?”

  His head swings like a gate in the wind.

  Mika could care less about the streetwalkers. Ignoring Harmon, she sounds frustrated.

  “He’s one step ahead of us all the time.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Each of the crimes scenes, all ten, eleven now, was spotless. Not one single fingerprint has been lifted, except for those that should have been at the scene. There has not been a drop of saliva, semen, or DNA. There are never any witnesses. All that’s ever left behind is that hideous scrawl of victim’s names above the deceased. It creeps me out whenever I see it. Burglary and robbery are never a factor. All jewels, except for the family jewels, are where they should be.”

  Mika starts pointing out directions for Harmon, and I start thinking more about the case.

  “Why Abrams? What’s the connection? Is there a personal ad for lonely hearts? Was he kinky, perverted, something none of us picked up on over the years?”

  As we drive up and into the driveway, I can see he lived well. The residence looks more like a posh hotel. Every house looks huge to a man who lives in a one-bedroom apartment. We aren’t even in the suburbs. Abrams liked to live among the natives and relatively close to the precinct. Mika said a congressman, a union leader, and a priest were some of the characters on the victim list. There did not seem to be a common thread, except for the authority thing. This is going to be interesting, and a challenge.

  “Did we get anything helpful back from the ‘eternal care unit’?”

  A common reference made by investigators, rather than ICU. The difference being, in the Eternal Care Unit, you’re a heartbeat away from setting foot in the next place.

  “I think Moss is still digging, at the morgue.”

  “The report isn’t due out until later today,” Mika says.

  No one is home now. Anna Abrams can’t bear to sleep there. The crime scene has been deserted, since the night of the crime. I missed the initial investigation. The only things left are the insects, the rancid smell, the bloodstains, and the revulsion. I take out my digital recorder and start making entries. I hate using a notepad, because my handwriting is poor to doctor-type unreadable. Besides my arm still has a bullet hole through it and it hurts to write.

  The only difference between this scene and the others is the fact the victim was discovered early on. Mrs. Abrams arrived home from her charity function within an hour of his death. Because the time of death is relatively easy to determine in this case, there isn’t any need for an entomologist to “bug” the corpse. Insects typically discovered the body before anyone else did. Depending on whether lice, mosquitoes or maggots got there first, they deposit their eggs in the eyes. The larvae, depending on their state of maturation, can give an exact time of death. Sometimes we get lucky if the mosquitoes get there first and are still in the area. It’s possible to snare them. Often times they carry the DNA of both the victim and killer after the bites. This murder happened inside, so there is little chance of that.

  Mika is right, “antiseptic” is a g
ood word for it. The disheveled, trashed, disorganized mess you usually expect to find isn’t here. There are dried bloodstains on the floor. The splatters are the right distance from Abrams. No doors were jimmied, and no windows had been broken. I have to believe Abrams knew his assailant. Fingerprint dust covers everything. No trace evidence such as fragments, filaments, or fibers, was found by the techs. This guy is knowledgeable and talented in the techniques of slaughter. The photos are back at the precinct. Of course, the area is already contaminated. The uniforms, EMS, investigators and even Mrs. Abrams have trampled through here. I wish I had gotten out here sooner.

  Mika stands in one corner and takes in the panoramic view. She has been here before for second and third looks. Sometimes what you just don’t see the first time, becomes painfully obvious the next.

  “Looks empty without a body, I’m going to walk around outside and work my way in. There might be something between here and there, you never know.”

  Harmon walks out into the hallway.

  “Who had access?”

  The words are meant for my recorder, but Mika answers, while pacing out the room for some reason.

  “The wife, there aren’t any children. Closest relative is in Bloomington.”

  She thinks she sees something, but it turns out to be nothing.

  “The doctor wasn’t particularly friendly with the neighbors. He and Mrs. A traveled mostly outside of the immediate neighborhood, and its inhabitants. There weren’t any fights, or arguments, just no contact.”

  “Clean, huh? Not much to work with, maybe Harmon will find something,” Mika says.

  Any evidence, however minute, helps. Evidence doesn’t lie. The problem with it is. It can be misleading if your interpretation of what it is trying to tell you is wrong. This case is definitely going to take all of my stamina, because of the lack of leads. It’s going to take street smarts and intuition I have accumulated over the years. I speak into my recorder.

  “Don’t look for what’s there. Look for what should be there.”

  The sound of heavy footsteps signals Harmon’s return. He glances first at me then at Mika.

  “I didn’t see a thing.”

  “Did you dumpster dive?”

  “First place I looked, nothing.”

  “What a surprise.”

  The sarcasm in Mika’s voice betrays her normally cool exterior.

  “You want to run through it?”

  Harmon and I join in an affirmative nod. Mika runs through it all hoping that some minute detail has been overlooked.

  “Abrams, Thaddeus, psychiatrist, age forty-six, Caucasian male, married to Anna. Case number: CR 897-4453. Address is here, six foot even, one hundred ninety pounds, brown hair, green eyes and small scar on right elbow. Victim found by spouse who has been eliminated as a suspect. Head facing northwest, face up, feet to the south and southwest, hands and feet secured as previous victims.”

  Harmon rolls his dark eyes and scrunches his face when she says the part about the castration. I can feel a phantom wound between my legs as well.

  The first forty-eight hours are critical to a homicide investigation. I’m standing here at the forty-ninth.

  * * *

  It’s been three days since Abrams’s murder. As an insider, and a man considered one of their own, Abrams is talked about in the precinct with affection and honor. There are outpourings of sympathy for Anna. How could anyone know his soul was thrashing and burning in the flames of hell at this very moment?

  My two partners drop me off at my apartment just after our visit to the mansion. It’s late and I’m exhausted. I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. My troublesome nightmares, return to duty, and seeing Mika again, all in one day has drained me. I can’t decide what beat me up worse. The pain in my arm is still there, but not as bad. My little helpers are easily accessible and a cold beer helps. Sometimes, being alone can be too quiet. As I recline on my couch, I think about getting my television repaired, but most of the shows suck anyway. I never shop from home, never cared about the Middle East, or the fabricated lives of movie stars, and I definitely don’t care about over-paid ballplayers. There are always the depressing news channels, but I deal with real life. I get all the entertainment I need on the streets.

  On the end table, beneath my Glock, is a vacation brochure that reads:

  “A small, rural town in Central Florida, Cassadaga attracts thousands of visitors each year for one unique reason. It’s a camp and winter retreat for spiritualists... Current activities in the camp include psychic applications of: palmistry, Tarot reading, astrology, and numerology, past life regression, dream analysis, spiritual counseling and soul healing.”

  Maybe a psychic can tell me who killed Abrams. I toss the brochure into the stack of old newspapers headed for the Waste Management dumpster. I’m anticipating, which nightmare will haunt and punish me, when I lay my head on my pillow. I hate waking up in a cold sweat in a dark room. I force my eyes to stay open but they fight me and win. In the middle of the night, a nightmare, once again, takes center stage.

  The auburn-haired girl with the swastika carved in her forehead stares at me as she does every night. She asks me the same question, “Who gave you the right to kill me?”

  I never have an answer for her.

  4

  The steamy hot water felt good. It caressed her naked body along its path to the drain. She saw it like a baptism that was washing her sins away. With her eyes closed, she thought about how rugged and handsome he was. She was taken by his boyish behavior, his sentimental eyes above the character creases in his face, and his deep, masculine voice. Jake was a classic lover-protector. With her head beneath the soothing waterfall in the shower, she thought about the last time they made love.

  His two fingers lay across my lips, and stopped me in mid-sentence. I felt comfort and safety, pleasure in his arms. His eyes communicated his desires. I kissed his neck, his strong shoulders, and his chest. He straddled me. His intimate thrusts became more aggressive and intense, until we clenched and remained locked, pleading for the moment to last into eternity.

  Mika had suppressed those thoughts over the past years and chose to concentrate on her career. Seeing Jake brought the memories back. She wasn’t sure whether to act on them, or place them on the back shelf of her mind where they resided for years. There was a job to do. She couldn’t let her emotions blind her now. A serial killer was roaming, searching, hunting for more victims. With all of the Bureau’s resources behind her, she still hadn’t apprehended him. The steam floated and formed a cumulous cloud in the bathroom as Mika stepped out of the shower. All she saw in the fogged mirror was a faint apparition.

  I still love him.

  Reaching for a towel, she patted off the droplets. The case was taking an obvious toll on her. The aches and pains were brutal, and relentless. The mental strain threatened to crush her. Her phone rang. Mika moved toward the nightstand, covered by a large bath towel. Midway through the third ring, she answered it.

  “Scott.”

  “Mika, the medical examiner’s report just came in.”

  “Anything helpful?”

  “Just the usual disgusting medical verbiage with no major revelations. I can have a copy over run to you if you like. Sorry to bother you this late, I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Not a problem, Ed. I would like to see it though. I can be there in—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s on its way, and don’t stay up all night studying the case. You need to get some sleep. You never know when the bad guy is going to climb up out of the coffin and strike again.”

  “Thanks, dad.”

  She heard him laughing on the other end.

  “I mean that in a good way Ed, you’ve always been... You’ve always looked after me, and I want you to know that means a lot. I’ve been so preoccupied, I haven’t said ‘thank you’ like I should.”

  “Good night, Mika.”

  The call disconnected. She held it fo
r a moment. Jake Roberts and her love life would have to wait.

  * * *

  Only five minutes counted down toward the end of the day, when she placed the key in the lock. She bent down to retrieve the last two days of newspapers then stepped into the foyer. She dragged her wheeled travel bag behind. Lori was traveled out. It had been a draining flight because of difficult passengers, an unfriendly crew, and the tiresome jet lag. She needed sleep. She wanted to be rested before her early morning appointment with her Emily. There was a lot to talk about.

  The fire engine wailer from her alarm clock forced Lori’s eyes to snap open. It wasn’t an easy transition back from her fatigue-induced sleep. She sat up in bed drowsy, but it was as far as she got on the first try. She lay down again, convinced she was no more ready for the world, than the world was ready for her. It was an hour and thirty-eight minutes later, when she finally awoke for good. She shuffled off to the bathroom for a brief visit then went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. While waiting for the coffee, she retrieved the latest newspaper left at her doorstep to see what else happened in the world while she was away. As she paged through it, the headline on page three caught her eye.

  No Suspects in Murder of Local Psychiatrist

  FBI Agent Mika Scott was quoted late last night as saying that no further information is available regarding the Abrams murder case at this time.

  They were clueless, as always, and she was still rocking. If they found out anything, it would have to be by accident, and Lori didn’t allow accidents. She was far too careful, organized, and intelligent. The caffeine brought her back to life, and the whole grain wheat toast helped to absorb the acidic feeling in her stomach. She revisited the bathroom to apply makeup, and brush her hair. She bolted into the walk-in closet where her flowered sundress hung. It was Emily’s favorite, and the one she would wear for the visit.

  Have to get a move on, my baby’s waiting.

  Just as Lori reached for the front door handle, a knock startled her. No one except for the postman knew she lived there. She never invited anyone into her private sanctuary. Swinging open the front door, she hoped to sign for whatever it was, and be on her way. A tall man with a muscular build stood at the door, wearing a striped tie and a blue button-down shirt over gray slacks. He had a slight smile, but looked as if he was on a mission.