Breaking Point_Kindle Serial

by Aric Davis

  “All right,” said Van Endel, who began walking from the counter to the bloodstain where Mrs. Russow had been discovered. “Say you’re right, these are a couple of robberies. Why didn’t he take Mrs. Russow’s purse? If he was looking to buy that M1, why didn’t he just take it? It was right there; all he had to do was grab it and then go about his business. He’s stealing, I’ll give you that, but he’s grabbing small amounts of cash from easily accessible locations. He’s thinking like a killer, and not like a thief. You said you talked to the boys, right?”

  “Yes, sure did,” said Nelson, “and, unsurprisingly, I got nothing. Those kids are so fucking whacked out it’s insane, and the dad’s not much better. We had to sit in there with a lawyer from the DA, and a lawyer whom he had hired, just so everyone could be sure those kids were getting enough hugs and not getting badgered by the mean policeman. It was bullshit, and anything those kids might have seen is irrelevant now.”

  It was all Van Endel could do not to smile, despite the somber location. He had a pretty good guess who the problem in the room had been: the self-proclaimed stubborn asshole standing across the room from him.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Nelson. “That you could get better results, that Nelson was probably an asshole. I was, and you’re right, but there is no one who is going to get those kids to come out with what they saw. They wouldn’t say anything. Not to you, not to me, not to anyone. Those boys lost their mother, and their dad is a fucking wreck. They can feel his emotion, and in some way they know they were connected to her death. There’s no way those two are going to be talking about anything, to anyone, not without years of counseling. Couple of goddamn guaranteed space cadets.”

  Van Endel had never wanted to punch someone more for something he’d said than he did Nelson at that moment. These weren’t people to Nelson, they were numbers, cases to be cleared so the higher-ups stayed off his ass about it. Is this where I’m headed too? Do we all get this jaded? He pushed the anger away and said, “Let’s go for a ride. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “What if there’s been some creep coming around and picking just the right spot?” Van Endel asked. “Let’s go ask around, maybe get some lunch.”

  Ken worked the fryer. Mr. Everett and a sixteen-year-old girl who couldn’t tie her own shoes were running the drive-thru and the registers. There was a cook named T. J. flipping burgers and frying chicken; he was stoned out of his gourd. The guy assembling and expediting for drive-thru, along with helping the kitchen staff, was named Ron, and he was as stoned as T. J. All things considered, the early lunch rush had been handled as well as anyone could have hoped for — no irate customers and only a couple of minor fuckups.

  Ken dumped fries, shook fries, and salted fries. He was lost in the world of potatoes, and in the world he was creating around him. Ken could see the woman he’d knocked down and shot in the back, he could hear the man he’d shot down outside. He could see the man at the gun counter spill bullets and fall over dead. He could feel the magic bullet in his pocket, he could see the fries in front of him, the containers for small, medium, and large. He could see the cashier’s blood flowing as she collapsed, he could see the man running from the register as he dispatched the two women.

  Ken did not see two men wearing suits walk into McDonald’s and ask to talk to Mr. Everett in private. He did not see Mr. Everett agree to the request, and when he was taken off the fry station to go the small office at the back of the restaurant, he assumed that two things were going to happen. The rhythm they’d maintained through lunch was going to collapse once T. J. and Ron were in charge, and he was going to get yelled at by Mr. Everett for some idiotic offense. Seeing the two men in suits sitting behind Mr. Everett’s desk was a punch to the gut. Ken tried to keep it from his face, making himself look as bored and dull as possible. He was shaking in his shoes, furious that he had a magic bullet and not a gun to put it in. Mr. Everett said, “Ken, these two men are Detectives Nelson and Van Endel. Why don’t you have a seat so we can all talk about what happened a couple of days ago?”

  “What happened?” Ken asked as he sat, hoping that some of the mess on his shirt would at least fuck up Mr. Everett’s chair before the detectives took him into custody. Just relax, you’ve got this. If they cuff you, act confused, and then get violent before the second wrist is locked in. It’s a small space, you can fight, and these assholes have no idea about what kind of man you are. Ken chased the thought of battle from his mind — he needed less stress, not the need to flee or kill.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Richmond,” said the one that Ken’s boss had said was Nelson. “What your boss is referring to is the shooting that took place at the McDonald’s a few miles from here. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, it’s been all over the news. You may even have seen my partner here on the cover of the Press.”

  Ken nodded, absorbing the information that the cop who had found the two kids that he’d missed was sitting across from him. It was almost too much to handle, everything about the situation. Ken rubbed the magic bullet through his pants, felt his heart rate slow. He could do this. He was a killer and these were just men.

  “Wow, that was you?” Ken shook his head. “The picture was super neat. You must have felt like a real hero.” Something about what he’d said had been perfect, Ken could see it on the grimace of the hero cop, and in the amused look on the one who he knew was the asshole of the pair.

  “I was just glad to get them out of there,” said Hero.

  “Ken,” said Nelson, “the reason we’re here is to talk to you and Mr. Everett. You guys were both working front of the house that day, is that correct?”

  “Mr. Everett has me move around a lot,” said Ken. “If he said I was on the floor or working the register, I probably was. What time was it?”

  “Just after breakfast ends and lunch starts,” said Hero. “Do you remember what you were doing?” Ken turned to Mr. Everett with an Aw shucks, I don’t. Do you, Boss? look on his face.

  “Ken was in and out of the kitchen and the dining room,” said Mr. Everett. “It was a busy day for us.” He smiled as though he were curing cancer one fat-riddled burger at a time. “Most mornings are; we’re actually among the top ten percent for stores in a town this size. I’m blessed with a great team.” Ken watched as Nelson nodded, already bored, and Hero considered Mr. Everett for the shooter. The moment didn’t last long. Hero turned back to Ken, and then regarded Mr. Everett, his eyes letting them know that the question was for both of them.

  “Anything odd that morning?” Hero asked. “Any of your customers seem off, anyone call in sick or act weird?”

  “I wish I could say that Ken being five minutes late was irregular,” said Mr. Everett, “but God bless him, late or not, Ken always turns in a good shift.” He cleared his throat. “Aside from talking to Ken, I was in my office most of the morning. Ken handled a lot of the morning work, but I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary. Did I miss anything, Ken?”

  “I came in and cleaned the bathroom,” said Ken, “plus unclogged one of the toilets. After that I did a sweep of the dining room before the lunch rush started; it’s a lot harder to keep it clean once people start coming in, so we like to make sure that it’s spotless before we get really busy.”

  “Sounds good,” said Nelson, though to Ken the tone of his voice sounded as if he thought that Ken's information was more boring than good. “Here’s what we’re wondering, though: Were there any odd people you can remember from that day, someone who just seemed out of place, maybe even nervous or angry?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Ken, turning as he spoke to Mr. Everett, who shrugged and said, “It takes all kinds, to be perfectly honest. We get a very wide array of customers, from lawyers on their way to work to high school–age kids here after class. I know that doesn’t do you gentlemen much good, but I believe Ken when he says he doesn’t recall anything out of place. It would take somebo
dy doing something really crazy to get the hackles up on my crew.”

  “Like shooting up the place?” Hero asked, as if it were the most nonchalant thing in the world. Ken enjoyed the way he said it; the detective talked about death the same way he would have ordered a hamburger.

  “Yes, exactly,” said Mr. Everett. “They certainly would have noticed that, but an otherwise normal day sees us serving food to a large number of unique individuals. We just tend not to notice their uniqueness.”

  “All right,” said Nelson as he stood. “That clears things up for me.” He turned to Ken. “It’s been a long time since I worked in a kitchen, Ken. I do remember my favorite part, though: making up our own versions of things to eat that weren’t on the menu, stuff only we could have. Assuming it won’t get you in any trouble with your boss, are there any special concoctions that you like to make for yourself?”

  “T. J. invented a special sandwich,” said Ken. “He calls it the Big Max. It’s the same as a Big Mac, but it has extra special sauce and two quarter-pounder patties instead of the regular ones. It’s really filling, but it’s really good.”

  Nelson smiled at Hero and said, “Well, if it’s not too much trouble, my partner and I would love to try a couple of those sandwiches.” He turned to Mr. Everett. “Not that I imagine there’s a button for such a sandwich on the register.”

  “No need,” said Mr. Everett, acting magnanimous. Ken could tell he was irritated. “You detectives can eat on the house. Ken, why don’t you go ahead and set these guys up, all right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Everett,” said Ken, happy as hell to be out of the office. They’re not even close. He walked back to the kitchen, stealing glances through the warmer at the sprawling crowd that the idiots left in charge had allowed to accumulate. He bellied up to the griddle and said, “You need to make two Big Maxes.” T. J. gave him an odd look. “There’s two cops in Dickhead’s office; I figure you’d rather cook than talk to them.” T. J.’s eyes bugged out, and he put meat to heat while Ken went back to his backed-up fry station.

  “It’s pretty damn good,” said Nelson. Bits of burger stuck to his mouth, and sauce ran down his hand while he drove. Van Endel ate his own burger in silence and did his best not to watch the road. Phil already looked like a car accident, but the erratic driving his eating caused made them likely to be the victims of one. Covered in food or not, Phil had a point: it was a pretty damn good sandwich.

  The McDonald’s had been their last stop on a run that had seen them traveling in a circuitous route around the burgeoning district of cheap food. The only question Van Endel had was one of significance. Had the McDonald’s and hardware store been picked at random, or was there some unknowable plan in place? Aside from the two places being connected by caliber of handgun and style of violence, there was little to link a hardware store and McDonald’s restaurant together. Sure, there would be crossover clientele, but they’d been to three other McDonald’s that were closer, and that said nothing of all of the other restaurants that were even closer. Directly across the street from the Ace Hardware was a Wendy’s that had seen no violence, so what did the hardware store have in common with the McDonald’s? Even worse, if there was no connection, how could they possibly hope to find their killer?

  Van Endel finished his sandwich and stuffed the trash in the stained sack that the food had come in. Phil had begun steady work on a large container of fries, but he did seem able to manage the steering wheel better with the fries than he had with the burger. “Any more ideas?” Nelson asked, spraying fried bits onto the dashboard and then chugging from a fountain Coke. “Because let me tell you, this was a good idea, but it was still a bust. Everybody was either convinced the shooter had been in their store first, or it was like that last place and they saw so many weirdos that they couldn’t possibly tell who the real nuts are.” Nelson smiled at Van Endel; his teeth were littered with food. “Of course, the manager and the fat guy both seemed nuttier than a squirrel turd to me, so I suppose it can be subjective.”

  “I really thought we’d hear something,” said Van Endel. “I mean, the kind of guy who does that doesn’t just come out of the woodwork. Someone had to have seen him.”

  “Unless we go back to my idea that this really is some trigger-happy robber,” said Nelson. “I mean no offense by that, I respect your idea, but there’s no way a robber goes somewhere first, itchy trigger finger or not. The kind of guy going to steal might be capable of killing, but the kind of guy going to kill for the sake of killing is probably going to have some familiarity with the place. Think of all the killers who have been caught solely because they kept frequenting the same spots over and over again. They can’t help it, there’s some weird compulsion there. Like an arsonist who can’t help but go jerk off and watch the flames, that type of person just has shitty wiring that’s always a little predictable. You mentioned your Stark guy—”

  “Charles Starkweather.”

  “Right, Starkweather,” continued Nelson. “He’s an exception. Take Bundy. Guy’s a fucking genius, has good looks, was engaged to a chick with money. He has the world by the balls. Except that he cannot stop himself from killing women. Remember when he got out? You were too young, I bet, to have people talk about it in front of your smiling mug, but I’d be shocked if it wasn’t discussed at the academy.” Van Endel nodded in assent. There wasn’t a cop in the country who didn’t know about that piece of shit Ted Bundy.

  “So Bundy escaped,” continued Nelson, “and for a little while, he ran. Then the urge got him. So he found the first spot he could that was secluded and had women, in this case a sorority house, and even though he could have kept running and maybe never would have gotten caught, he couldn’t help himself. He had to go there and fuck them and kill them — for him there was no option. It would be like me asking you why you had to take a shit — there’s no good reason, your body is just screaming at you that it has to happen. That was Bundy, that’s Gacy, that’s fucking all of them. They’re like a dog pissing on the same fence post every day: they don’t know why they’re doing it, but they sure as hell know that they have to.”

  “Starkweather is proof that it can go another way,” said Van Endel.

  “Starkweather is the exception that proves the rule, and nothing else. We’ll keep your idea in play, Dick, but we’re looking at this as a robbery first. You played your angle, now it’s my turn.” Nelson took a drink of soda, then re-crotched the fountain drink. “What that means for right now is pawnshops. Let’s see if anybody has been dealing with a screw job lately, sort of a jack-of-all-items. Robbery reeks of desperation, and it takes a long time to reach bottom.”

  Ken was out of work at six thirty, and he made his way home quickly. There were hours that needed to pass before he could go hunting again, but that was OK. He needed to eat and then recharge his batteries, he needed to get his head in the right place. Those detectives had spooked the fuck out of him, and, oddly, they’d spooked Mr. Everett too. Ken didn’t know why that was, not even close, but he did know the look Mr. Everett got on his face when he was nervous, and those cops had made him seem like he was painted in that look.

  Mr. Everett had been all but walking around and wringing his hands. T. J. said he was acting like a Vietnam vet turned teacher he’d had in high school, a guy who was wired tightly enough to seem like he might burst. Mr. Everett had seemed the same way — he was wound up tight, and if Ken didn’t know who was really behind the killings, he might have wondered at Mr. Everett’s possible involvement. Instead, Ken was left to wonder just what awful skeleton lay in his bully of a boss’s closet, what hidden secret needed to be desperately kept from the wary eyes of a visiting pair of cops. Ken had no clue of what it was, he just knew that no matter what Mr. Everett was hiding, it was nothing compared with the black truths buried in his own heart.

  Ken stripped out of his work uniform but didn’t dress in the clothes he planned to wear for the mission. He wanted to enjoy a few hours of pants-free living. He did g
et the revolver from the bedroom, though, along with a paper bag full of ammunition. A similar brown bag could be found under his bed. That one was full of fired brass, every casing a souvenir of what he’d done, of what he was becoming. That perhaps was the best part of all, that soon he would be free of all of the awful things tying him to the world. All he had to do was get some money, kill Paula and the kids, and then stay the course. I can do it. Ken had never been one to believe in himself, but this was different. Not only did he believe in what he could do, but he’d also made a plan, and he was going to stick to it.

  Leaving the gun and bag of ammunition on the table, Ken stood and walked to the fridge, then opened the freezer. There were a number of TV dinners inside, and he selected one that was labeled “Sliced Beef Meal.” Ken ignored the picture on the box of thinly sliced beef drowned in a brown gravy, along with a pair of vegetable sides and a pudding, and flipped the box over. The temp was listed at 350 degrees, and that was what he set the oven at before setting the food on the counter. They all should cook at the same temperature, he’d thought on more than one occasion, but that was not to be. Whoever was in charge of the preparation and instructions tacked on to the packaging of the meals didn’t want it to be easy.

  Ken had the food in the oven fifteen minutes later. As it cooked, he stared at the front door. Part of him was waiting for it to be kicked in, another part was wondering if Mr. Everett had been paid a second visit yet. The idea of his boss being hassled by the police because of things that he was doing was delicious, especially if Mr. Everett’s secret was illegal and became known to them. The beeping of the oven broke his reverie.