Mr. Snuff

by Jon Athan

  Russell tugged on his hair as he cried. The days of violence and vengeance had taken a toll on him. He had witnessed suicide and he partook in the murder of a young man. His past was riddled with violence, but the recent surge was overwhelming. The ferocity of the situation made him dizzy and nauseous. He bit his bottom lip and staggered to his feet. He placed the glass bottle on the countertop as he breathed heavily.

  Through his gritted teeth, Russell said, “They deserved it... They all deserved it... They deserve more... They can't be forgiven for what they did. No, I can't show them the mercy they didn't show my daughter... I can't...”

  Russell jabbed at the cupboards, smashing the flimsy doors with his vicious strikes. He snapped each cabinet door with his powerful punches – when one wasn't enough, he delivered another. The splintered wood tore into his knuckles, slicing into the webbing between his fingers. The lacerations stung, but he could not stop the rage.

  With a scrunched face, Russell gazed at his bloodied hands and asked, “Why can't I feel it? Huh? What the hell is wrong with me? Am I like these sick bastards? What is it? Huh?”

  As he exhaled loudly, Russell grabbed the bottle of whiskey, then he smashed the glass on the countertop. The shards scattered across the counter and sink; the tantalizing alcohol splattered across the area. With the shattered bottle in hand, Russell walked into the hallway, then he stared at his reflection on a mirror by the living room's archway.

  The mirror reflected a poignant image. The misery in his bloodshot eyes was evident. He couldn't feel the physical pain, only the emotional agony reverberated through his body – a paralyzing twinge, like if he were stabbed through the spine. Russell lifted the shattered whiskey bottle to his neck and stared into his glimmering eyes. He stared into his forlorn soul, simultaneously begging for death and pleading for life – the suicidal dilemma.

  Russell's arm trembled uncontrollably, bouncing on and off his neck. He could not thrust the glass into his throat. He was too close to completing the puzzle. His dastardly actions haunted him, but Carrie's death tormented him more than anything. A father without a family was merely a lonely man. Fatherhood can be stripped like a badge on a vest, Russell thought, and I want it back.

  Russell shambled into his bedroom – the last door on the right. He fell onto his queen-sized mattress, slowly sinking into the black bed sheets. He lifted his head and stared at the dresser on the opposite side of the room. The hardwood dresser had six drawers and an attached mirror There was a free-standing picture frame with a photo of Carrie on top.

  The photo depicted a young Carrie. She was only seven years old in the photograph, glowing with happiness and youth. The mere image was his last personal remnant of his daughter's existence. His memories would inevitably fade with the years, erased like pencil on a sheet of paper. The thought sent Russell on a roller coaster of emotions.

  Once again, the innocent image of his daughter vindicated his violent quest for vengeance. The last reminder of his family justified his heinous actions. A sense of determination swept through every limb. Russell shuffled on the bed as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed Scott's number, then he held the phone to his ear.

  Before he could utter a single word, Scott shouted, “I agreed to help you with a few things, buddy! I can handle burying a punk kid because I won't get caught! I didn't agree to arson, Russ! We did not agree to burning down a goddamn building! I–I can't be associated with a madman burning down video stores! I can't!”

  Russell sat up in his bed with a furrowed brow. Scott's rant was baffling. Murder and torture were undeniable, but arson was not on Russell's conscience. Arson was never an item on his agenda. The idea wasn't even under consideration.

  Scott asked, “Why the hell did you burn down AJ's? Huh? I know you're going through something, I understand that. But, come on, man, they could have used all of that crap as evidence. They could have finished the job for you so you wouldn't have to get your hands dirty! Think about it, Russ! How far are you going to go with this?”

  Russell responded, “I didn't burn the video store. I didn't even lay a finger on the cashier. I went in, then I left in peace, Scott. You have my word.”

  “You didn't burn it down? Really?”

  “No. I called you when I was leaving. You know that. Was anyone hurt? Did anyone die in the fire?”

  Scott sighed, then he said, “Well, they said the cashier was trapped inside...”

  Russell was befuddled by the revelation. He remembered the peppy young woman from the rental shop – Rebecca. He contemplated her final words and the fear brimming in her teary eyes. The possibilities were sinister – suicide? Accident? Murder?

  Russell asked, “If not me, do you think it could have been this 'Andy Wu' bastard? You think he'd burn his stash before they could find it?”

  Scott said, “Jeez, Russ, I don't know. I didn't think of that. I don't know if he'd firebomb the place. If he did, then they probably know who you are and they know you've been sniffing around. I don't think I can go any deeper. You shouldn't dig any deeper, either, buddy. I'm running out of favors. I'm... I'm sorry.”

  “You don't have to go any deeper, Scott. No, you've done more than enough for me. I can handle this myself. This is my family, this is my problem. I understand that. I only need one more thing from you. Something simple. No more dirty work, I swear.”

  “What is it?”

  Russell bit his bottom lip, then he asked, “Can you get me a gun?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Calm During the Storm

  Rain poured onto the bad side of town, drenching the unkempt lawns, beat-up cars, and ramshackle homes. The milky moonlight barely seeped through the dense clouds – a thunderous tempest was brewing. The dark and dreary sky reflected the inevitable rampage. Blood would be spilt and havoc would be wreaked.

  Taylor sat in his black sedan, gazing at Russell's one-story home with narrowed eyes – a self-assigned stakeout. He took a sip of his blistering coffee without taking his eyes off the target. The scorching liquid burned his lip and the hot steam caressed his tender face, but his eyes did not wander. He was dedicated to his work.

  The detective couldn't help but ponder the torched rental store and Russell's suspected actions. A young woman was savagely burned alive due to arson. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was diligently investigating the fire, the suspect, and the man behind the curtain – Andy Wu. The pieces linked together well, but he couldn't accept the truth.

  Taylor shook his head and whispered, “No, no... He wouldn't do that... He wouldn't kill another man's daughter. I don't believe it...”

  The humming vibrations of his cellphone echoed over the pouring rain. Taylor shuffled about in his seat as he placed the paperboard cup in the cupholder. He shoved his long black coat aside, then he retrieved his cellphone from his right pocket. The caller ID read: Goodman. Taylor furrowed his brow, curious about the unexpected call.

  He tugged on his tight white button-up shirt and answered, “This is Taylor. What's going on, Goodman? What do you need?”

  Goodman responded, “Taylor, where are you? What are you up to? You just sort of... vanished after the whole fire thing.”

  Taylor bit his bottom lip as he glanced towards Russell's home. He contemplated his explanation, pondering a myriad of excuses and the potential responses. Taylor was a man of respect and honesty, wearing dignity on his chest like a badge of honor. Yet, honesty would have to take the backseat in his current situation.

  Taylor despondently stared at his groin, flicking the clinging lint from his black slacks as he responded, “I'm at home. I'm just... I'm just listening to the rain and thinking about everything. Nothing important.”

  Goodman asked, “You let all of that Wheeler shit go, right? You're not dwelling on something that was out of your hands, are you?” Taylor sat in silence. Goodman continued, “Let the FBI handle it, Taylor. You can't solve every case that lands on your lap. Some people die without reason, others vanish wit
hout a trail. You can't solve them all. And this Wheeler guy, he wasn't your buddy or your damn father. You don't owe him shit. You owe him nothing, you hear me?”

  Melancholic from Goodman's rant, Taylor said, “You're wrong. I owe him closure. This isn't about one person, it's not about one family, it's about justice. It's about justice and vengeance. If we want the former, I have to find Carrie's killers. I have to...”

  “Oh, come on! Stop with that bullshit already, man. This isn't a fucking movie. You're not some noble solve-it-all, save-the-day detective. We both know that shit doesn't exist in the real world. We sit down and bust our asses hoping we find a trail, then we follow it. If we don't find it in 48 hours, we sweep it under the rug and move on to the next one. That's our job, that's what we do. That's what we've always done.”

  With a vein bulging down his brow, Taylor jabbed his index finger at the steering wheel and shouted, “No! No, that's what you do, Goodman, not me! I don't look at a murdered child and walk away! I don't do that! I can't do that because it doesn't leave my mind! I'm not like you!”

  Goodman huffed, then he said, “That's bullshit and you know it. You're probably not at home, either, right? You fucking...”

  As Goodman spiraled into another tirade, a faint thudding sound reverberated through the car. Taylor turned to his right and found a man knocking on the passenger seat window. The man's hand was veiled by a black rubber glove. Taylor furrowed his brow as he slowly lowered the phone and peered out the window. The man leaned down and peeked into the vehicle.

  Taylor could see him clearly – Russell Wheeler. Russell wore his signature outfit. A black beanie covered his grizzled hair and his black hoodie covered his dome. Droplets of pouring rain coursed down his black leather jacket and plopped on the ground. His intentions were unknown, but he did not seem malicious.

  Taylor didn't see an arsonist or a killer. He saw a caring father searching for answers. He saw a dedicated man with a lust for justice – a reflection of himself. He was awed by Russell's sly movements. He was parked several houses down and he kept his eyes locked on the home, but he did not see Russell depart. He could only blame Goodman for distracting him.

  In a muffled tone, Russell asked, “You going to let me in?”

  Taylor swallowed loudly and slowly nodded. He lifted the phone to his ear and said, “I'm going to have to call you later, Goodman.”

  ***

  Russell and Taylor peacefully sat in the sedan, staring at the windshield as they listened to the soothing rain. The duo were unusually silent inside the car. The ambiance was eerily tranquil. The calm before the storm... during the storm, Taylor thought. Yet, he wouldn't dare to audibly question Russell's intentions.

  Taylor sighed, then he asked, “So, how have you been coping?”

  Russell absently stared at the streaming water on the windshield. The coursing water was inexplicably hypnotizing. He was blatantly lost in his thoughts – thoughts of life and death. He could not answer Taylor's simple question. He was not coping with the unfortunate event, he was fighting for vengeance.

  Disregarding the inquiry, Russell said, “Carrie loved the rain. She loved it. You know, she'd always piss her mom off when she'd come home soaking wet. I'm talking drenched from head-to-toe like if she just came out of a swimming pool. The thing that pissed us off was... she had an umbrella, but she never used it. She loved the rain too much to let it go to waste. I'd scold her about it, but she wouldn't stop. Hell, when she begged, I'd even join her on occasion. I'd go out there and play in the rain with her. A grown man and a sweet girl dancing in the rain... That's the girl that's been taken away from our world. Her mother's off in some crack house or dead in a ditch, I don't know. I only care about Carrie. It's not a pretty picture, though. That picture is not good enough for my daughter. Not at all...”

  With glum eyes, Russell stared down at his groin. The story was bittersweet. An insignificant love for rain spoke volumes about a complicated father-daughter relationship. Taylor was rendered speechless by Russell's simple tale. He opened his mouth to speak, but he froze before he could utter a sound.

  Russell asked, “Do you have any family, detective?”

  Taylor clenched his jaw and loudly swallowed. He slowly nodded and said, “Yeah. I've been happily married for over ten years. I have a little boy and a little girl.”

  “Good, good... That's very good. You probably love them with all of your heart. You understand the importance of family. So, you probably know what I have to do, right? You understand why I have to do it, don't you?”

  Taylor shook his head and stuttered, “N–No...”

  Russell sniffled, then he explained, “I'm going to kill a man come morning. You can take it as a confession if you'd like. I will kill a man when the sun rises. I might even kill a few more. This... This 'Mr. Wu,' as some call him. I'm going directly to his warehouse and I'm going to end his little business. I'm going to end his life.”

  Mystified by the straightforward confession, Taylor ran his fingers through his moist hair and said, “Wait a second, Mr. Wheeler. Let me get this straight. Are you telling me you know who killed your daughter? You know exactly where this man is located?” Russell nodded as he brooded over his decision. Taylor continued, “You have to tell me everything you know, Mr. Wheeler. We can stop him. I can stop all of this before it gets out of hand. You don't have to get your hands dirty for this.”

  Russell smirked and huffed. He said, “It's already out of hand, detective, and my hands are dirtier than ever before.” He lifted his hands and stared at his veiled palms, ashamed. He said, “I've got... I've got blood on my hands that won't come off. The blood is permanently engraved in my skin. I can't even stare at my bare hands anymore. I can't do that...”

  Taylor shook his head as he examined Russell's overwrought demeanor. Russell's mood shifted from tranquil to distraught within minutes. The detective could see the torment in his hollow eyes and his trembling arms. The man was rattled by his own actions, but he couldn't stop.

  As he lowered his trembling hands to his thighs, Russell asked, “Do you love your daughter?”

  Taylor nodded and said, “Of course. I love my daughter, I love my son. I love my family, Mr. Wheeler. I don't think that's a way to... to justify...”

  “If I tortured your daughter for some demented porn business, would you sit there and let me live? Knowing my disgusting deeds, knowing my location... Would you let me be and wait for the police to handle it?”

  Taylor was at a lost for words, shocked by Russell's aggressive questioning. He placed himself in Russell's shoes and found he could not stray from the trail. Merely considering his daughter's heinous death made his blood boil. Vengeance was the path he would walk. He couldn't deny it, so he refused to answer the question.

  Taylor said, “We can get him, Mr. Wheeler. We can lock him up for the rest of his life. We can lock all of them up and make sure they never have another step of freedom. I promise, I can do this. Just tell me where they are.”

  “That's not what I want. I don't want him to live a peaceful life in some cozy jail cell. I don't want him to read books and watch television while he waits for trial after trial. I want to cut him into little pieces. I want to devour that son of a bitch. I want him to feel the same pain and fear my sweet Carrie felt. That's what I want.”

  Awed by the savagery, Taylor shook his head and said, “You don't have to do that. I can catch him...”

  Russell sternly said, “You haven't caught him yet, detective. You've been sitting around here watching me for hours instead of doing your goddamn job!”

  Taylor snapped, “I have been doing my job! I've been working this case nonstop for days. That video hasn't left my mind since I first saw it. I've interviewed her friends and her colleagues trying to piece everything together. I have an APB out on her boyfriend, although I think you might know where he is. I'm working all of my leads. I'm only here now because the FBI thinks you have something to do with a few suspicious deaths and a fi
re. I know you're hurt, but don't tell me I'm not doing my job. I'm working with everything I have.”

  With a steady face, Russell gazed into Taylor's livid eyes. Taylor was visibly infuriated by the accusation. Russell found some comfort in Taylor's anger – anger was usually associated with passion. The detective was genuine, working as hard as Russell to solve the case. Taylor, however, was restrained by the law, which limited his range. Russell smiled and nodded. He pulled a cellphone out of his pocket, then he placed it on the dashboard – Stephen's cellphone.

  Russell said, “You've got a lot of phone numbers and some addresses in there. You better start cracking and tracking. You already know what I'm going to do. If you find us in time, maybe you can join in on the fun. Maybe we can end the madness before it begins. I'm going to walk out of here now. If you want to stop me, you'll have to shoot me in the back. A few rounds should put me down. To be honest with you, I welcome death at your hands, detective. I've got a feeling we'll be seeing each other very soon anyway... dead or alive.”

  Russell nodded and waved at Taylor. He stepped out of the vehicle, then he walked ahead of the car. Taylor watched in utter awe. He was incapable of calling for backup or pursuing the suspect. He could not reach for his holstered firearm or conjure the energy to demand cooperation. He simply sat in the driver's seat and watched as Russell vanished with the storm.

  Chapter Twelve

  A Bullet For Your Thoughts

  Russell trailed behind Scott, following his friend's lead. Usually, Russell was the man in command, but Scott had the connections – small talk and negotiations were his forte. The pair moseyed down a filthy hallway. The white tile flooring was cracked and scraped. The blue walls were scrawled with graffiti and smeared with blood. The small rooms at each side of the hall were bustling with criminal activity – money laundering, drug experimentation, and prostitution. The abandoned building was converted to a shopping mall for thugs.