Sons of a Brutality

by Daniel Jeudy

  Collins’s assertion about the significance of family had got him thinking. His son was forced interstate, and his influence on the boy was now secondary at best. Addison often expressed his love for Nate through muzzled tones of constraint. He’d tried raising the kid with principles that might endure beyond life’s numerous storms, never insisting on telling him how things needed to be done. He believed it was best to allow children to learn from their mistakes, while Michelle wanted to shelter their son at every juncture. It seemed she would have preferred him to remain an innocent baby forever. But Addison understood what might be waiting around the next bend. A father lying dead on the side of a road, or even a grown man without answers, sitting inside an empty house while he stared into the bottom of a whiskey glass.

  Addison grabbed his phone off the couch and hit speed dial on his ex-wife’s home number, listening in frustration as the call threatened to go through to her voicemail again. He was about to give up when Michelle finally answered.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hey, Michelle, it’s Addison. Is Nate there?”

  “Yeah, hang on. I’ll get him for you.”

  Her indifference was something he’d become familiar with long ago. It seemed an age since they’d last spoken anything warm or gracious to one another. Addison heard the boy asking who it was, followed by padded feet running on the floor.

  “Hey, Pop,” Nate gushed.

  “Hey, kid. How are you doing, buddy?”

  A three-second pause caused Addison to smile. His son was contemplative, which was something to be respected in this world.

  “I’m doing great. I made the basketball team, starting point guard,” he proclaimed excitedly, unable to get the words out of his mouth quickly enough.

  “Really?”

  “Yep, it came down to me and two other kids. The list was up on the gym wall this morning, and I got the start. The first game is in three weeks.”

  “Wow, I don’t know what to say. You’re the first Mowbray ever to achieve a starting role in a high school team. I’m damn proud of you, boy.” The memory of them shooting hoops together at the house in Eagle Rock hurt. He’d experienced despondency in various forms over the years, but never more intensely than right now.

  “What about when you played football for the Lone Star Rangers?”

  “I only made the starting team in my senior year. Besides, the point guard is like a quarterback, and I sure as heck wasn’t a quarterback.”

  “Mom said she saw you on the television. Will you be on again soon?”

  “You know me, son. I’d rather stay incognito.”

  Nate laughed in a way that made the heaviness around Addison’s life feel lighter. “Did you shave, Pop?”

  “Well, what do you think? You tell me.”

  “I think probably not.”

  “And I think you may be right.”

  The boy laughed again; it was a warm, embracing sound. “How’s Jed doing?”

  Jed had this manner of speaking to the kid that reminded Addison of his father. Tongue in cheek, yet still serious enough to make him feel like a grown-up.

  “He’s great. Just surfing at Santa Monica and meeting all the pretty girls like always. I’ll be sure to let him know that you asked after him. He’ll be thrilled.”

  “Yeah, tell him I said hi. Mom told me that I might be able to come and stay with you next year on the holidays,” he said, his voice scaling upward again.

  “Well, that sure sounds good to me.”

  “Do you know how long it will take to get from Phoenix to California?”

  “It all depends on how you’d be traveling, son.”

  “Mom said I’d have to catch a bus.”

  Michelle had a phobia about planes.

  “If you had to ride a bus, then you’d be looking at around seven hours. Luckily, I’m happy to buy you a plane ticket to make sure you get here in express time.”

  Another pause went long enough to make things slightly uneasy.

  “Do you think you’ll move to Arizona when you retire?’

  Addison heard the longing in his son’s question and could almost see his dark hair and sad brown eyes; it tugged at his heartstrings. Even though he didn’t like to acknowledge it, he felt guilty about how he could be so distant from the boy. The barriers were supposed to ensure Nate never had to go through what he did while growing up, but his noble intent failed to make him feel any less of an asshole.

  “I sure hope so, kiddo. Now, I need you to understand that it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing. You will always be at the very center of my thoughts.”

  Addison heard Michelle calling the boy away and needed to stop himself from asking the kid to put his mother back on the phone. He’d finally managed to get through to them, and making a fuss right now wouldn’t benefit anyone.

  “Mom’s hollering at me. I think supper’s ready.”

  “Okay, son. You go on and enjoy your supper, and I’ll give you a call again in a couple of days to see how your practice is going.”

  “I love you, Pop.”

  “I love you too, kiddo. I’ll speak with you soon.”

  “All right.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  “Bye.”

  When the line went dead, he just sat there for a while, thinking of all the things he might have said to the boy, before moping out to the kitchen for a refill of Jack Daniel’s. He’d started contemplating the liquor burning his throat by the time he unscrewed the lid and pulled a swig directly from the bottle. After the whiskey settled in his belly, he took a cigarette and raised his lighter to the tip while drawing the smoke deep inside his lungs.

  Dinner remained an afterthought as he made his way back to the living room and slumped himself down onto the couch. Isolation could be a reasonably comfortable companion when he came to accept it, so he resigned himself to stew in seclusion until the booze kicked in to bring the curtain down on his night.

  Thirty-Two

  Coniglio watched a dark-haired waiter float between tables in the dining zone to place her martini down in front of her. The young man smiled while he inquired whether she needed anything else before moving along to a group of twentysomethings seated nearby. A Southern jazz band was preparing to hit the stage, and she was excited to see the show. Coniglio made sure she left the office half an hour early that afternoon to get herself ready in time to arrive at the club for dinner. Her Cajun catfish had come sautéed to perfection, and the goat cheese salad blended nicely with the chargrilled flavors of the main dish.

  She made a few calls earlier in the day to see if anybody felt like accompanying her to the gig, but most of her friends were married and usually required notice to hit the town. The Catalina Bar and Grill was a renowned jazz venue situated on the western end of Sunset Boulevard. Their music roster was one of the best around, and even though they imposed a two-drink limit on all non-diners, people were packing into the place like sardines.

  Most of the women here tonight appeared to be under forty and were either escorted by a male companion or gathered in groups at the bar. There was a period after her marriage ended when she would have felt self-conscious about being alone at a club. As if middle-aged unattachment were a social disorder to be ashamed of. Fortunately, her attitude transformed when she made a vow to keep doing all the groovy stuff she enjoyed.

  Being single no longer made her feel inadequate. Her main concern these days was deflecting the uninvited attention she usually attracted from younger guys. She enjoyed watching them walk away in surprise, unable to comprehend how a mature woman could resist an opportunity to be with a man half her age. College had affirmed how random sex was overrated. Because for her, at least, intimacy and friendship went hand in hand.

  Coniglio bit unconsciously at her lower lip while thinking about how she considered inviting Mowbray along in the afternoon. It took her ten minutes to conclude she should leave him alone after being fixated on the idea of asking him out for a drink.
All her courage had just dissolved each time she went to pick up the phone. Her ambiguity resulted from rejection anxiety more than anything else; she certainly didn’t feel daunted in the company of men. Forensic pathology meant working with the toughest guys in town—the kind who didn’t mince their words in front of a lady. If Mowbray did have a genuine interest in getting to know her better, as she suspected was the case, then it would eventually play itself out. Until such time, she was content with appreciating the obscure treasures immersed within each new day. Besides, she had a duty to focus her energy on assisting in the perpetrator’s apprehension, even more so when she considered what Mowbray said about him falling off the grid.

  Coniglio sipped her martini while she checked her phone, pleased to find there were no new messages from the office. Lieutenant Collins called during the afternoon with the particulars on the two missing youths, which strengthened the likelihood the perp was part of a killing league. She had tried piecing together Mowbray’s hypothesis and compared it to her findings in a bid to uncover something that indicated he was wrong. But after deliberating over the crimes’ voracity and patterns, the more plausible his philosophy had seemed.

  The inverted Christian cross suggested the offender’s connection to the occult was probably legitimate, not to mention the lack of sexually inspired violence so prevalent in most sequential crimes. Mowbray’s hunch had really unsettled her. Because if he was right in his supposition about the killer belonging to something greater than himself, did it imply the group was aware of the psychopath’s actions, or perhaps even approved them? She had never faced a community of evil, and it presented a scenario better left unknown.

  Coniglio examined her makeup while she directed her thoughts onto something less intense. The jazz band was expected on stage shortly, and there weren’t going to be any calls coming through to her phone. She was free to enjoy a few martinis tonight, and whatever tomorrow sent her way, she would deal with.

  The attractive waiter was wiping down a table nearby, so Coniglio finished the drink and raised her empty glass in the air to gain his attention. She’d already spent too much time reflecting on the dead. Tonight, was all about living, and she intended to let her hair down in doing just that.

  Thirty-Three

  An angry expression came over Collins’s face as Jed apologized to everyone in the room for his late arrival. Addison observed his partner with trivial amusement, smiling at the way he pretended not to notice the heat behind the lieutenant’s glare. The kid was adept at simulating unawareness when it came to the boss. Addison recognized a spark ripple across Special Agent Katy Pearce’s features. It was a common occurrence whenever a lady encountered his partner for the first time. The kid often liquefied hearts with a simple hello.

  Pearce looked to be Jed’s age with straight honey-blond hair that hung past her shoulders. The navy-colored suit she wore failed to disguise the shapely body resting beneath. Her natural sun-kissed complexion and light green eyes complemented a self-assured style and conveyed a sense of comfort among men. Pearce may well have been the most appealing agent Addison had ever seen, but everything needed to remain above board if they were working together. Most law enforcement love affairs eventually soured, and Addison didn’t want to get the FBI offside because of an aching heart.

  Rick Sharp was the special agent in charge, a lanky, middle-aged African American with closely cropped, receding hair and smooth features. Sharp presented like a man familiar with determining the rules. He displayed a sophisticated composure in his approach. Dressed in a black suit with polished shoes, he made Addison feel more shabby than usual. At least Jed looked a million bucks. Collins, too, though that was commonplace for the both of them in almost every circumstance.

  “Let’s get down to business, then, shall we?” Sharp recommended. “I don’t imagine you guys are too surprised by our presence here this morning. Your serial killer has managed to get the whole damn country into a spin. Everybody from Tennessee to New York seems to be following the investigation in some manner. The Bureau was happy to leave things in your capable hands up until now, but when CID received word of the first victim’s tourist status, they decided that we needed to get involved.”

  Sharp paused while he fixated on the detectives. Addison assumed he was attempting to get a read on what they thought of his straight-to-the-point approach.

  “Now, I know you guys have been working your butts off and are way ahead of us here,” he continued. “So, I could sure use a quick rundown on where things presently stand.”

  Addison shifted in his chair. “You mind filling us in on your plans for the case first?” he asked, skeptical.

  Sharp offered an appeasing smile. “I want to try to outline a cohesive plan on how we can best work together on this, and I don’t intend to step on anyone’s toes along the way. Are you guys down with that?”

  Addison considered bunting back the question, but Collins was delighted by the prospect of having federal assistance, so he just pulled a face and held his tongue instead. When a scratchy silence descended into the room, the lieutenant leaned forward on his desk.

  “You bet your ass we’re down with that, ain’t that right, Detective Mowbray?”

  “Sure thing,” Addison replied, unconsciously pulling at his tie. “Although I have to say, I thought you guys might have been more interested in the vigilante.”

  Sharp smiled perceptively. “The vigilante is targeting notorious criminals, and so long as it remains that way, then he’s all yours.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you, Agent Sharp.”

  Sharp opened his palms to signify a truce. “There’s no need to be so formal. Call me Rick. So, who wants to kick things off?”

  Collins had an unusual expression on his face which made him appear like he’d been asked a riddle he didn’t know the answer to. Still, the detectives understood when to remain silent.

  “We’ve been trying to locate where the asshole gets his chemicals from, and I’ve got half the division following up on anything else that comes in. My lead detectives here have recently obtained some interesting info. I’ll allow them to fill you in on the details.”

  Addison needed to stop himself from laughing as the two agents turned their attention toward him with an unblinking stare. Talk about being thrown under the bus.

  “My partner and I are in the process of tracking down a woman named Sarah Cross. We believe she knows a certain group of people who might be capable of killing in a manner which fits the crimes.”

  Neither agent reacted, but Sharp was eyeing him with intent.

  “Can I inquire as to what kind of group they are supposed to be?” he said before looking sideways at Jed with a dubious glance. The kid remained cool and assured while leaning back silently in his chair with a pensive smile.

  “A collective of some kind, and it’s been alleged that their associates kill for pleasure, sacrifice people in satanic rituals, and drink human blood,” Addison said.

  Both agents exchanged disbelieving expressions.

  “Have you guys paused to consider the kind of bullshit a story like this will cause? Don’t you remember what happened during the mid-nineties?” Sharp challenged.

  “We sure have, Rick,” Addison responded sardonically. “The West Memphis Three were primarily responsible for lighting that bad fuse, but as far as I can tell, the entire investigation was mishandled from the very start. Unsurprisingly, the case generated a swarm of public hysteria, which led to unwarranted allegations about black rituals occurring in the suburbs. Then, after millions of tax dollars were burnt in the process, it was deemed they were all looking for something that had never existed in the first place.”

  Sharp’s face changed slightly. “All right, tell us about this group of yours,” he suggested through a forced smile.

  “As you know, all three victims are similar in appearance and missing different body parts. The most recent woman had the main artery in her neck severed. The examiner believes th
e perp may have an affiliation with the blood.”

  Sharp rolled his shoulders. “But the blood loss in all three victims can just as easily be attributed to the seriousness of their injuries, can it not?” he reasoned. “The trauma was extensive.”

  “It isn’t something we can be certain of. However, the method he used to kill Jennifer Hill supports the theory he intentionally bleeds them out. The corpses were branded with an inverted Christian cross. Are you aware of what the symbol represents?”

  Sharp and Pearce nodded their heads.

  “The perpetrator is using chloroform during the abductions. Then he injects the victims with hospital-grade ketamine as a precursor to their execution. There’s zero evidence of any sexual assault and no frenzied attack brought on by lust. I believe he may be working his way toward a particular goal, and if he’s successful, he’ll likely ride off into the sunset. Or perhaps he might be attempting to control himself for reasons still unknown and is on the verge of erupting. Either way, a link to the occult seems more than probable.”

  Sharp appeared uncertain as he leaned forward in his chair. “I really can’t see how this has anything to do with a cult, though. I’m not so sure you’d want information about the possibility of blood-drinking murderers becoming public. If it got out, you’d have every right-winger in the country calling your hotline about their neighbor next door. Don’t get me wrong, I can understand why you’re thinking the way you are, but we’ll need more if you expect us to take your suspicions about a cult seriously.”

  Addison enjoyed the trace of sarcasm he heard in Sharp’s voice. “I’m only just getting started.”

  “And I’m all ears,” Sharp replied irritably.

  “We recently received a call from a citizen who’d provided intel on another LAPD case several years ago. When my partner and I followed up on what she told us, we learned of a group who used to go by the name In Paucis. It’s been alleged these people have been operating since the nineties, perhaps even longer.”