Sons of a Brutality

by Daniel Jeudy

  “How ya doin, Junior?” he greeted.

  “What’s up, Sean?”

  “Nothing much. How’s your pops getting along?”

  Junior scanned the items on the counter and placed them into a bag. “He’s all right, looking after Grandpa and working like always.”

  Sean looked over his shoulder. “Hey, man, have you seen those two in here before?”

  “Yeah,” Junior replied, rolling his eyes.

  “What’s their story?”

  “I’m not sure, but the girl is always covered in bruises.”

  Sean paid for his things.

  “Say hello to your pops for me.”

  “Will do, man.”

  Sean headed back outside to the parking lot, where he placed his shopping in the front seat and lit a cigarette, resting against the trunk of his car while he waited for the couple to finish up inside. The sun blazed orange in a cloudless blue sky, its light blending with the concrete’s mica to form a constellation of tiny diamonds. A sudden wind gust swept leaves and paper across the ground, creating a clean, dust-free strip in the process. When Sean caught sight of Joel and Tara rounding the corner, he wasn’t surprised to see the young lady carrying four bags of groceries a few steps behind. Sean waited until they were only ten feet away before speaking.

  “Working her to the bone, I see.”

  Joel looked behind him in confusion. “You talkin’ to me, bud?” he asked, pointing at himself.

  “I sure am, and I ain’t your bud.”

  “Huh … do we know each other or something?”

  “Not yet.”

  The first sign of alarm touched Joel’s face. “What the fuck do you want, man?”

  Sean flicked his smoke at the dickhead. “I wanna fight ya.”

  Joel stopped in his tracks as if he’d met an invisible wall. “Why the hell you wanna do that for?”

  “’Cause, you’re a woman-bashing cunt, which is as good a reason as any.”

  Sean’s eyes never shifted from the abusive prick, tilting his head as Joel started quivering right in front of him. His emotions gnarled together while a desire to hurt the bastard flooded his mind. An all-consuming hatred twisted fire through Sean’s insides as he moved toward Joel. He felt the guy’s terror leaping off him in waves—the kind of fear which could only be experienced by a weak fucking bully.

  “Raise them hands of yours, Joel. Like I saw you doing to your girlfriend inside.”

  “No, fuck off … I don’t even know you.”

  Sean smirked. “Sure, you do. I’m that promise you always knew was coming. The one you push to the back of your mind each time you set about beating up women who are half your size. Come on now, man, lift those fuckin’ hands.”

  Joel started retreating in small, shuffling steps. “What are you talkin’ ’bout? I don’t beat up on no women. She fell down the back steps. Ain’t that right, baby girl? Tell him, Tara, tell him how you fell.”

  Sean chuckled, shaking his head while moving forward. “You yellow bastards are so freaking predictable, man. Your ladies must all have two left feet the number of times they be falling down a set of stairs. Why can’t you be a little more creative with your excuses? How about she fell over running away from my disgusting ass, or she tripped at the thought of having to spend another night sharing a bed with me.”

  Joel’s eyes darted between Sean and Tara. It was pathetic. “Tell him what happened, Tara! Do it, god damn you!”

  When Tara went to speak, Sean cut her off.

  “Don’t bother, sweetheart. This is going down no matter what you say.”

  Joel stopped retreating when he realized it would serve no purpose, holding his hands up in front of his face in flinching defense, a coward to his very core.

  “That’s better,” Sean said merrily. “I’m gonna teach you an important lesson here today. Something I hope might end up changing your life for the better.”

  “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I won’t touch her again, I promise.”

  “Really?” Sean asked, watching as a glimmer of hope flashed inside his eyes. It was an expression cops and battered women saw whenever an abusive male got the notion to better themselves. When they promised to speak with somebody about their problems or swore to God they’d never do it again, thinking that everybody would have to support them. The violence usually started up the following week with minor insults and threatening glances designed to make their partners feel worthless. Some of the cocksuckers probably even felt guilty afterward, but that never stopped them from reoffending.

  There were many kinds of monster in the world. They didn’t exist in dark wardrobes or hide under children’s beds waiting for the lights to go out. Joel was a breed of beast who lashed a woman’s soul, creating sounds and smells that stayed with them forever. The only monster Tara needed to fear right now was the one she woke up with each morning.

  Sean landed a straight left into Joel’s mouth that sent him staggering backward with a loud cry of anguish before a well-timed right hook landed on his cheek, splitting the skin below his eye, and dropping him in a filthy heap.

  “Quit fuckin’ whining, you yellow prick,” Sean said. “Why won’t you fight back, asshole?” The sight of this grown man blubbering intensified his rage. Tara was trying hard not to stare at the blood trickling down her abuser’s face but got drawn back each time she went to look away. Sean grabbed a fistful of ginger hair and unleashed a flurry of punches that smashed into Joel’s nose, face, and mouth.

  When Sean felt a couple of teeth shatter, he straightened to survey the wretched, broken figure crumpled below him. The guy’s eyes were swollen over as bloody spit drooled from his slack jaws to form gooey crimson slop on the ground. This bully appeared entirely revolting so that his exterior now reflected the man within.

  Sean wiped the blood from his knuckles on the back of his jeans, then leaned down again to remove a wallet from Joel’s pocket. He found a driver’s license and took note of the address, crouching beside the creep’s busted body where he lifted his head.

  “I know where you live, prick. Are you fucking listening to me?”

  Joel moaned his response.

  “I’m going to be keeping my eye on your fat ass. If I see one more mark on this young woman, I’ll shoot you in the head and put everyone out of their misery. You understand?”

  Joel moaned again as Sean turned to face Tara.

  “You’re worth more than this piece of shit will have you believe. You can do so much better. If you’re ever in danger or feel like you can’t get away, then leave a message with the owner of this mini-mart. Ask for Sean, and I’ll help you, okay?”

  Tara nodded her head slowly with a look of genuine appreciation on her face as Sean got to his feet and dropped the wallet on the ground.

  “Tell the asshole I kept this,” he said, showing her the driver’s license.

  “Thank you,” Tara mouthed.

  “Don’t mention it,” he replied, sinking one last boot into the coward’s stomach before making his way back to the car.

  Twenty-Seven

  Jed puffed on a cigarette while driving down the final stretch of Simi Valley road. “Third Street should be coming up on our left in a minute if my GPS decides it’s going to be accurate this morning,” he said indolently.

  Addison looked out the window as suburban America flashed by like a movie reel stuck in fast forward. It was after four in the morning by the time he got home from Mount Lee, and he flopped into bed after finishing his whiskey. Jed had arrived at ten for the drive to Harry Bath’s after they decided to try their luck at landing on his doorstep unannounced.

  A dark shadow of stubble covered the bottom half of Addison’s face, and he examined his careworn reflection in the side mirror. His eyes were a bloodshot haze of whiskey and weariness. The cheap black suit he’d found in the closet was crinkled and faded. He felt utterly outdated beside his partner, who appeared fresh in casual denim attire.

  “Here we go, then,” Jed s
aid, pulling into the curb. “Now, let’s just hope the priest is inside, or our drive out here will have been a waste of time.”

  Harry Bath’s home gave the impression of being narrow from the front but seemed to stretch back into the property like an oversized coffin. A Californian palm tree bent toward the road from inside a ring of desert cactuses. The only other vegetation in the yard was a handful of thirsty-looking plants that appeared to have been placed arbitrarily, and the dry patchy grass looked in need of a decent soaking. Dead bugs dangled from a cloud of glistening web on the rusty mailbox near the sidewalk.

  Bath’s windows were coated in a thick film of red dirt while the exterior paint had started peeling away in large chunks. Simi Valley was situated in the southeastern corner of Ventura County. For the most part, the ordered little city was considered a great place to live. There were plenty of nice houses throughout the region; however, Harry Bath’s property wouldn’t be considered one of them.

  Addison wondered what the neighbors thought of the ramshackle residence as they made their way down the priest’s splintered driveway. He considered the maintained gardens across the street while climbing a small staircase onto the porch and approached the door. Addison knocked firmly, recognizing the outline of an approaching figure behind the frosted glass. The door creaked ajar to reveal an older man with cagey eyes.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Father Harry Bath?” Addison asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Father Bath, I’m Detective Mowbray from the LAPD homicide division,” Addison began, flashing his credentials, “and this here is my partner, Detective Perkins. I apologize for imposing on you unexpected like this, but we’ve tried to reach you on numerous occasions over the last twenty-four hours. We were hoping to talk with you about a homicide investigation we’re currently working on.”

  “I haven’t been answering my phone of late,” Bath said indifferently. “I wondered who it was calling me yesterday. Like a dog with a bone, you were.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope we didn’t annoy you too much.”

  Bath remained silent, which prompted Jed to step forward. “How do you do, sir?”

  “Two minutes earlier, I would have said I’m fine, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Harry Bath was of medium height with a thin build. His shaggy, unkempt hair appeared very brown for a man of his age. Deep wrinkles fanned across his forehead, and the gray stubble on his face was halfway to becoming a beard. Bath was dressed in cotton short pants, a grubby white vest, and tattered flip-flops.

  “A homicide investigation, you say?”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Addison acknowledged. “But don’t go alarming yourself. We haven’t come here because you are suspected of any wrongdoing.”

  “No?” Bath retorted. “Then what brings you to my door?”

  The priest’s tone was similar to the one Addison reserved for God-bothering enthusiasts who occasionally passed by the house on his days off.

  “We’ve been told you might be prepared to speak with us about a certain group of people who may be able to assist us further,” he explained hopefully.

  “And who has given you the impression I can do that?”

  Addison reconsidered Plume’s directive about anonymity as he scrambled for a response, but before he could come up with an answer, the priest asked another question.

  “More importantly, what did they say about me?”

  “Someone who insisted upon remaining anonymous suggested we try to speak with you. This person is under the impression that you can assist us with a particular line of inquiry we are presently exploring.”

  Bath’s eyes narrowed into two colorless slits. “And you expect me to believe that’s all this person said?”

  Addison decided to change his approach. “Do you watch the news, Father?”

  “Not if I can help it. I don’t even have a television inside the house. There’s nothing honorable waiting to be discovered on CBN these days.”

  Addison smiled politely. “I am going to entrust you with some confidential police information in the hope it may appeal to your priestly nature and persuade you to speak with us. We require this conversation to remain strictly between us.”

  Bath nodded his agreement.

  “There is a serial killer running rampant around Los Angeles. A maniac who is responsible for the deaths of three young women, all of whom were murdered in an extremely brutal fashion. The perpetrator injects his victims with ketamine before cutting away various parts of their bodies, and he brands the shape of an inverted Christian cross onto their left breast. It also appears he may intentionally bleed them out.”

  Something flashed behind Harry Bath’s eyes.

  “We suspect he is attempting to perform an occult sacrifice, and we have also considered the likelihood he may belong to a cult. My partner and I were informed that you might know of a supposed group operating in the state several years ago. Which is the reason why we are now standing on your front porch.”

  Bath remained stoically silent, and right when Addison began thinking of what else he might present, the priest turned around to start moving back inside the house.

  “Follow me, then. I’m prepared to give you a minute or two,” he agreed.

  A tingle worked its way up Addison’s spine.

  Jed closed the door quietly behind them as they trailed Harry Bath down a dark hallway devoid of any ornamentation. He led them into a murky living area with a limestone fire hearth and several mismatched furniture pieces.

  Bath dawdled over to a grimy couch positioned against the far wall where he offered them both a seat. Addison vacillated before eventually sitting down. There was a musky odor in the air that reminded him of hunting stag inside the Piney Woods as a boy. If the space wasn’t quite disgusting, it sure as hell wasn’t far from being so. Coffee rings marked the oak table in front of them, while the coating of dust on the cabinets beside him was half an inch thick. All the paintings were hung crooked, and a stack of old newspapers in the corner had turned yellow with age.

  A palpable sadness filled the room—a melancholy he could relate to. The brass crucifix on the mantle above the fireplace personified the loneliness and the fact there were no photos on display. Both detectives observed an uneasy silence while Bath dragged a timber chair across the floor and took a seat opposite them.

  “Would either of you like tea or coffee?” he asked half-heartedly.

  “No, thank you,” Jed replied.

  Addison raised a hand in the air. “Thanks, but I’m okay as well.”

  “All right, then,” Bath continued. “How can I help you?”

  Addison looked at Jed, who signaled for him to lead the way.

  “The person who provided us with your details said there were rumors about a group who were active in the area some time back. They think these people could be involved with the murders we’re investigating. Do you know who they may have been referring to?”

  An intense expression crossed Bath’s face. “I want to make it clear that I wouldn’t usually discuss such things with anybody whom I didn’t know and trust. However, the events I’ll soon relay to you have weighed heavily upon my soul for many years, and perhaps a shred of positivity may yet come of this. Now I haven’t got a clue what your contact has divulged about me, but I can assure you that taking a human life is not something of which I approve.”

  Addison leaned forward. “As I explained earlier, Father, no one has suggested you have been a participant in any crime,” he assured the man wholeheartedly.

  The priest appeared to appreciate the sentiment. “I’m only prepared to run through this once, so you’ll need to have your notepads ready, and I’d appreciate it if you refrained from asking questions until I’ve finished.”

  Bath waited until they both agreed to his conditions before continuing.

  “Back in 1994, I was running a small meeting at a house in South Pasadena, and one of the participants was a you
th named Andrew King. One night, Andrew told me about a snuff club that a friend of his had become involved with. He explained how the group killed for pleasure and sacrificed people to receive an esoteric understanding of matters pertaining to their own lives.

  “When I probed him further on what he said, Andrew remained unmoved and even elaborated how the affiliates murdered together at secret gatherings. He seemed to be impressed by their principles, and how he spoke could probably be defined as boasting. What you need to realize is that Andrew was an underprivileged youth with a range of mental complications. So, I naturally presumed his story was nothing more than fantasy. He often relayed outlandish tales to certain people at the meeting.”

  Jed leaned forward with pen in hand. “Can I ask what the purpose of this meeting was?” he inquired.

  Harry Bath weighed Jed’s question with a hooded gaze. “It was an intimate group for grieving people who desired to contact loved ones and angelic beings. The good kind.”

  The kid appeared a little disturbed by Bath’s response, while Addison attempted to get his head around what he’d heard a moment earlier.

  “What do you mean by the good kind?” Jed asked.

  “I’m referring to celestial deities or holy angels—spirit beings from an alternate dimension who oppose demons and normally remain hidden from human sight. Before you ask anything else on the subject, let me say this: I firmly believe that both angels and demons are as authentic as you and me, perhaps even more. Yet, for whatever reason, it’s usually the fallen kind who are more likely to reveal themselves to people. In any case, I don’t advise attempting to initiate contact with either.”

  It didn’t feel as if there was much scope for a response, so they stayed quiet and nodded their understanding as best they could, waiting for Bath to continue.

  “When Andrew came to the meeting the following week, he was utterly paranoid, displaying symptoms of heightened anxiety. He eventually informed me how his friend was a practitioner of Brujeria, a form of Mexican witchcraft. That’s how he encountered In Paucis. The Latin grabbed my attention; in paucis, you see, means ‘the few.’”