Killer Curriculum

by Douglas Alexander

  “Mom, I’m home!” Kara yelled into the house. She kicked off her sneakers and headed down the basement stairs to banish her foul cheerleading practice clothes into the washing machine. Bouncing back up the stairs she sprung into the kitchen and straight to the refrigerator.

  “There is a plate with dinner on it in the microwave,” her mother’s voice chimed in behind her and she jumped and screamed at the same time.

  “You almost gave me a heart attack.” She went straight to the microwave to retrieve the food.

  “It’s almost 9 o’clock at night, you are just getting home?” Kara’s mother looked both concerned and annoyed, so Kara gave her best I love you Mom look as she shoveled food into her mouth.

  “I had cheerleading until nearly eight, and then I had to shower and grab all my books.” It sounded clear and concise in her mind, but all her mom heard was “I’d chelidig upto ate, an thin add tower an grandma books.” Food entering her starving belly was not going to pause even for talking. She grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, slung her book bag over her shoulder and balanced the plate in her other hand as she jaunted up the stairs.

  Jackie rolled her eyes and went back to join her husband in the living room. She would love to yell at her daughter to slow down, not take so many classes, do less extracurricular activities, but the girl did more than anyone Karen knew and still carried a perfect grade point average. She was always moving. I guess we could have bigger problems, she thought, sitting on the couch.

  Kara’s room was defined by its four walls. The first, seemingly held together by the floor to ceiling shelves that proudly displayed trophy after trophy. It was Olympus, and it stood as a monument to many of Kara’s accomplishments. Each gold cast gymnast was a memory, every shining cheerleader was a victory. Hour upon hour had been spent in grueling practices to earn that wall of gold.

  Her twin bed was pushed against the second wall: pink perfection. Actually, the wall was pink and grey camouflage, a tribute to the princess of the past as well as the tomboy that had dominated her adolescence. Randomly, pictures were spread around the wall. Some of Kara as a child, tutus, and tiaras. A few from prom and homecoming that had come and gone. And pictures of her hunting with her father, both kneeling in the snow behind a fresh deer.

  If the first two walls represented things Kara loved, the third was a testament to her academic dedication. Her desk, laptop, printer, and bookshelves consumed most of the space. A collage of old report cards hung as a reminder that she had held her education to the same perfecting standards as everything else she devoted her time to. In fact, school had been easy for her. Maybe too easy. By her freshman year of college, Kara found herself becoming bored. Then she took Abnormal Psychology and had her first taste of Criminology. Predicting and assessing criminal behavior took skill and hard work. Once again, she found a challenge that engaged her.

  The last wall in her bedroom was occupied by a huge whiteboard with countless pictures of known serial killers, police reports, forensic findings, and all interconnected with Kara’s handwritten notes and links drawn in erasable marker. Pulling the photos from today’s crime scene from her book bag, she paused a moment to find the area of her board devoted to Samuel King, the Puppet Master. It took a moment, then she smiled and added the new case underneath King’s. She felt certain that it was obviously a different killer. Professor Booker was convinced he had killed King, but there was also no way of ignoring the apparent connection.

  After a quick shower, Kara wrapped herself in a large towel that enveloped her petite frame. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she stared across the room at the whiteboard. So often she had watched Booker just stare intently at evidence until some grand understanding came to him. She couldn’t help but think we are missing something still. Just like her mentor, she sat staring at the board until she slumped over fast asleep.

  Chapter 7- The Lucky Roll

  Sarah stepped into an orgy of sound, color, and cool air. There were ringing and buzzing machines, winners shouting with joy, losers cursing their bad luck, and others sending up prayers to whatever gods may hear and grant them a much-needed win. Flashing lights drew her eyes to every possible location at once. Just as she turned to look at vibrant, multi-themed slot machines, an even brighter flash would draw her eyes to a bigger, newer game. There weren’t any casinos in Manhattan, and her first taste paralyzed her for a moment. Her astonishment was disrupted by a hand around her wrist pulling her forward and closer.

  “The trick”, Booker whispered to her, “is to see through the pageantry to the real con here.” He was already tugging her through the crowd, limping on the cane, but still moving surprisingly fast. “You see, the whole purpose is to force a feeling of hyperarousal. The designers of the casino want all of your senses caught off guard, and all of the bells and alarms are to instill a sense of anxiety, so you feel like you have to play as soon as possible because there is never enough time.”

  Booker skipped on his good leg and cut through the crowd in front of him with his cane like a knife. “Take a deep breath,” he inhaled and looked at Sarah to do the same. She did. “The air is cool and a higher percentage of oxygen, to keep people from getting tired and wanting to leave. Everything in here is designed to make you comfortable so you want to stay. The longer you’re here, the more money you spend.”

  As the young detective looked around again, she began to notice some of the same points that Booker had made. Everyone did seem pretty comfortable. There were even attractive women in revealing clothing walking around bringing people their drinks. Sarah leaned into Booker, “The players at the tables and machines get free drinks brought to them?”

  The professor nodded. “And if you decide to go to the bar to get your own, the same drink is eight dollars. The unspoken message is clear…”

  “Keep gambling.” Sarah finished.

  “I’ve known men to sit at a table for twenty-four, forty-eight, even seventy-two hours. One such patron dropped dead not a few months ago. Heart attack complicated by dehydration. The doctor said he must have known he was having a heart attack, but even then, the man wouldn’t stop playing.”

  Suddenly, the flash and glamour faded, and Sarah could see the scam behind the veil. Ignoring the flashing lights, she noticed all of the video cameras, security, and the business that was being conducted underneath the “entertainment value.”

  As they walked through the jungle of distractions, Sarah began applying some of her detective skills to the scene. She noticed that while the winners were loud and flashy, there was a hell of a lot more people that appeared to be feeding money into the machines and sitting silently, wringing their hands at tables with no positive result. Is this how Booker sees everything all the time? She wondered.

  Glancing at him near her, his eyes were a vacuum cleaner, sucking up every little detail they came in contact with, yet his face kept a somber, professional demeanor. In just the last two days she had seen a lot. Yes, it was true he could be a little too blunt, but she found herself envying the deductive powers this ex-FBI agent seemed to have at his command. Booker pointed at a door toward the back of the room with a security guard standing outside it.

  Sarah approached the guarded door not being able to ignore the fact that the hired muscle was doing a terrible job “blending in.” The man was easily over 6’2”, with a haircut that screamed I’m ex-military and can’t assimilate back into the world. The white coiled wire going into his left ear was a dead giveaway, just in case, someone missed the outline of a firearm pressing against the cheap blue blazer he was wearing. The closer they got to the door, August seemed to slow up and allow Sarah to take the lead. He was after all, not law enforcement anymore. “We need to speak to someone in management.” Sarah requested as the two stepped up to the guard.

  The hired-hand looked them over quickly and responded dismissively, “management is busy, come back later.” His square jaw and stern eyes didn’t change in any demeanor.

  Sara
h sighed, opening up her jacket to expose her badge. “Official business, management can make time for me.” The sluggish sentry looked at the badge for a long moment, held up a hand then pressed a microphone near his collar and mumbled something into it. After a pause for a response that Sarah imagined was coming through the terribly hidden earpiece, he said “follow me,” motioning for them to follow through the door he opened.

  The guard led Sarah and August through a short labyrinth of corridors that led to a private elevator. Sarah noticed there were no buttons for up or down, just a small black box. Their escort pulled out a card and waved it in front of the box, changing the small red light at the top to green. The doors slid open and the three stepped in. After a short ride up, the doors reopened into a large office that overlooked the casino floor.

  In front of the large windows, there were two twin mahogany desks, perpendicular to the windows and facing each other from each side of the room. The floor of the office was marble; highly polished. Expensive art and décor gave the room an extravagant facade. Behind one desk was Shamus O’Connell, built like a tank with legs, his dress shirt stretched across the expansive chest, seemingly held on by the silk tie and matching burgundy suspenders. Sarah found it surprising that they made collars that could actually wrap around his thick neck. His red hair was neatly edged into a buzz cut and flowed down into a well-groomed beard. As he watched Sarah and Austin enter the office, he leaned back in his leather, wing-back chair and laced his banana sized fingers behind his head. A large grin crossed his face. He looked Sarah up and down, “the Berksville Police? This is a treat.”

  “I’m Detective Rime” she held the badge up that was dangling around her neck. “This is my colleague, August Booker.”

  “The famous FBI agent. We know who he is.” Shamus grinned. “There’s not too many men in their thirties walking around with a cane.” He pointed to August, “especially a fancy one like that.”

  “I didn’t realize I had a fan club.” August continued to stand near the doorway, leaning on the cane. “And it’s Professor Booker now; I’m retired from the FBI.”

  Still grinning, Shamus reached into a humidor on the desk and clipped the end from a cigar. “Either way, Professor, we’ve heard some impressive things about you.” He slowly lifted the Cuban to his mouth and lit it. “The way I hear it, you can tell all sorts of things about a man just by looking at them.”

  August shifted slightly. “Just observant, nothing special. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

  Shamus took a puff and nodded. He looked across the room at his brother, Danny, who in turn, set his gaze on Sarah. “We heard there was a new detective in town, and here you are. It didn’t take long for you to visit our humble abode.” Daniel O’Connell stood up from behind the matching desk, he was tall and slender, clean shaven, with his red hair pulled back into a neat pony-tail. “I’m Danny O’Connell, this is my brother, Shamus.” He spread his arms wide, which caused his shiny cufflinks to peak out of the sleeves of his jacket, “welcome to The Lucky Roll.”

  Sarah nodded and pulled a small notepad from her back pocket. “Mr. O’Connell, we are investigating the murder of one of your employees.” She paused a moment to gauge the room. The two brothers looked at one another surprised.

  “Who?” Shamus said gruffly as he sat up straight.

  “Henry Glazer,” Sarah answered, but noticed the two brothers seemed not to recognize the name. “Do you know him?”

  Danny spoke up, “We have over 200 employees here at the casino, Detective. Unfortunately, we don’t know them all by name.” He rubbed his chin. “But, of course, we can get you anything you need.”

  Danny looked at Shamus, who motioned to the guard who was still in the door. “Brent, can you go tell Timmy we need to see him?” And then quickly added. “Oh, and tell him to bring Henry… Gazer?”

  “Glazer,” Sarah corrected, not knowing whether the forgetfulness was an act.

  “Thank you. Tell him to get Henry Glazer’s employee file.” Nodding a quick sign of understanding, the hired-man quickly left the room.

  “Just a few minutes, and we will have information for you,” Danny assured them.

  Shamus’ attention returned to August. “So these super-powers of yours…”

  “Where did you hear that?” The professor queried.

  “Rebecca Vance, your old friend. She is staying here at the hotel. We are hosting the launch party for her newest novel.” Shamus leaned back in the chair again. “She speaks very highly of you, and since we’re waiting, how about a demonstration?”

  August grinned slightly at the mention of his long-time partner.

  “We’re not here to put on a show” Sarah began, but the professor waved her off, nodding his approval.

  August moved forward, the tell-tale click of his cane proceeding each step. “You both want people to respect you, which shows in the way you dress. Your clothes are both hand-tailored.” He fingered the ornate handle of his cane. “But despite the image you portray, you grew up poor and still hold on to the tough work ethic and do-it-yourself attitude that helped you to build everything you have.”

  “Where do you get that from?” Danny asked, looking interested.

  The ex-profiler pointed to Shamus’ hands. “Your brother has recent scar tissue on his knuckles, which tells me he has been in at least a few physical altercations recently, and since I don’t see any bruises or cuts on his face, I can assume he has been the one dishing out most of the punishment. At the same time, the folded blankets and pillow stuffed behind your desk tells me that you tend to put in some late nights and sometimes don’t even make it home.”

  The brothers glanced at each other and then gave August a nod of approval. “You are driven to make your own legacy, like your father. Many of the photos lining the hallway to your office are of your father when he was a boxer. He fought hard and put a lot into building his reputation in and out of the ring.”

  Danny interrupted, “Everyone in town knows that our dad spent a lot of time and effort keeping the streets clean and the rabble in line. They still have a celebration every year on 2nd Street on the day he died.”

  August leaned both hands on the silver and gold handle of the cane. “But do most people in town know that you recently quit smoking?” Danny seemed shocked.

  “Or I should say, you attempted to quit. It’s not going well, and you’ve been sneaking a few cigarettes here and there, whenever you can.” August paused then added, “As a matter of fact, you have a partial pack in your top right-hand drawer right now.” Danny’s eyes widened, and then his brother chimed in disappointedly.

  “I thought you said you quit!” Shamus shook his head.

  “I am trying, but it’s not that easy.’ Danny pled his case to his sibling. He turned back to August. “How in the world?”

  Just then a large security guard came through the door followed by a short, mousy-haired man in a blue suit, carrying a three-ring binder.

  “Somethings, I guess, will have to remain my secret,” the professor said with a grin. “It looks like we’re back to business.”

  Disappointed, the brothers motioned to the man Brent brought in. “This,” Shamus introduced, “is our younger brother Timmy.”

  Danny added, “He’s the floor manager and handles most of the staff.” He looked at his little brother. “This here is Detective Rime and PROFESSOR Booker”, he emphasized the correct title for August this time. “Help them however you can.” The youngest of the O’Connell boys sheepishly stepped forward and glanced at the two investigators without really looking them in the eyes.

  “How can I help you, Detective?” Whether he meant to exclude August or not, it was apparent he was focusing his attention on Sarah.

  The detective answered him with the impatience of someone who felt they were repeating themselves unnecessarily. “We are investigating the death of Henry Glazer. His wife said he worked here.” She reopened the notebook. “What can you tell us about him
?”

  Timmy O’Connell had the posture of a light pole. He held his head high and opened the binder he had carried in with him. Timmy lacked the natural intimidating presence of his older brothers, and August couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t seem to have the same authority in the “family business” at the Lucky Roll. “Mr. Glazer has only worked for us for a few weeks, I don’t know how much I can really help.”

  “First of all, is it normal company policy to hire people with arrest records?” Her tone was intense, trying to assess whether Timmy was holding anything back.

  The younger brother looked back and forth at his brothers, who didn’t make an attempt to speak on his behalf. Finally, he answered. “We do not technically discriminate based on that issue. As you probably know, our father had run into some trouble after his boxing career ended.” He looked toward the hallway where the portraits of his father were. “So, we try to be open-minded and give some people a second chance.” And then he added quickly, “On a case by case basis, of course.”

  “And you felt Henry Glazer deserved a second chance? He has a number of counts of domestic violence on his record.” Sarah looked at Timmy and then at his brothers who seemed unaware.

  “You gave a job to a wife beater?” Shamus turned on Timmy, raising his voice in apparent indignation. “What the hell were you thinking?” His little brother’s face began to flush and he took a step back.

  “In all the cases, his wife never pressed charges, and she came in with him to ask for the job.” His voice quivered in opposition to his two big brothers. “She vouched for him and said the calls were misunderstandings. Said she herself was a bit of a wildcat, and that the incidents were mutual fights—not just him wailing on her.” Timmy took half a step forward as if to try and regain what ground he had obviously lost under Shamus’ questioning.

  “Timmy, you know that’s what they always say. Remember Aunt Rita? She’d claim the same thing, and she was meeker than a church mouse. Never raised a hand to Uncle Jimmy once. Can’t believe you’d take the word of a woman who was being used as a punching bag! Especially when her old man was in the room!” Shamus stood up, and the youngest O’Connell brother reflexively retreated a few steps. “It never crossed your mind she would say anything that scumbag told her to?”