Monster: The Story Of A Maniac

by Peter Cry

  “Wow, Escamilla,” Steve said unexpectedly. “I wonder what kind of a surprise it is.”

  “We’ll find out soon. I’ve already received the call about the delivery.”

  Helen did not have time to finish the sentence. She was interrupted by the door opening. A courier in the black-and-blue uniform came in. He held a wet plastic pouch in his hands.

  “Mrs. Escamilla?” he asked.

  “Miss,” Steve answered for his partner.

  “Sign here, please,” the courier said, holding out his electronic tablet.

  Scribbling her name quickly with a stylus, Helen took the pouch.

  “Thanks.”

  “Not at all, miss.” The delivery man promptly left.

  Tearing the protective film, Helen threw the packaging on the floor. She extracted the folder from the bag and laid it on the counter.

  As she was hastily opening it, she heard Steve mutter “Shit.”

  Helen took out a large color photograph. On it was the almost completely burned out Silverado. Judging by the license plate, it was the truck they had chased just over six months ago.

  “You owe me a drink,” Officer Escamilla said quietly, continuing to look at the pictures.

  “Please, forgive me,” Steve replied calmly, gazing at the shocking pictures.

  “Have a look at this, the tread pattern on the rear tires is surprisingly well preserved.”

  “Looks like the flames did not get to them.”

  Helen collected all the photos and put them next to the folder. There was also a report of several pages which described all the available details about the crashed vehicle.

  “Did they find a body?” Steve asked.

  She quickly skimmed the first two pages and stopped at the third one.

  “Here!” Helen exclaimed. “No bodies were found in the cab. There were traces of blood inside, on the seat. As a result of the DNA test, it was established that the blood belonged to a twenty-five to thirty-five-year-old man. They did not find any matches in the police database. Also, the remains of sleeping pills and sedatives, Sibazon and Propofol, were found in the truck. No fuel tanks were found. Next to the wreck, they found remains of a Samsung smartphone, data from which could not be restored because the device had been lying in the open air, judging by its condition, for at least several months.”

  Officer Escamilla turned the page. There were only a couple of lines and data with the addresses and phone numbers of the police department where the information came from. Closing the folder, she looked at Steve with bewilderment.

  “When did they find the vehicle?” he asked.

  “About a week ago. As soon as the snow started to melt.”

  “What a mess,” Steve said, genuinely perplexed. “So, apparently, the vehicle was there since the fall.”

  “What do you think? Animals might have torn the body apart.”

  “They might... But in that case, there should have been some pieces of torn, bloodied clothes.”

  Their colleague reappeared.

  “Well, have you already found some common ground?” he asked gently.

  “Not now, Al,” Steve half snarled.

  The poor duty officer who had no place in his own station that evening, took a deep breath and announced he was going out for a smoke.

  “Propofol, Sibazon,” Helen repeated quietly, left alone with her partner.

  “I was struck by that detail, too.”

  “A killing, and then destroying evidence with a vehicle?”

  Steve shook his head.

  “I don't think so.”

  Frustrated by this response, Helen threw the folder onto the counter.

  “Then what?”

  “An accident.”

  “Sedatives, Steve! Substances rarely used by local farmers.”

  “Yes, I know!” Her partner declared Indignantly. “But that’s not what bothers me right now.”

  “So, what does?”

  “Think about it. If that case turns out to be serious, then both of us fucked up. We pursued him, he obviously behaved suspiciously, and we just let him go without even informing anyone in the neighboring state.”

  Steve looked around, rubbing his forehead nervously.

  “If it turns out that, among other things, some kind of crime is involved, we’ll not get away with it, Escamilla.”

  The cop lowered his tone. “And this, of course, won’t happen if you don’t tell people that we were chasing him and forgot to report about it.”

  Helen was puzzled by the strange behavior of her colleague.

  “I don’t have to mention to anyone that our paths crossed, but I’m not going to drop this case.”

  Steve's face turned cold.

  “And how will you explain your curiosity in it? Intuition?”

  The policeman zipped up his jacket and looked around again, making sure they were alone.

  “Do what you want, Escamilla, but don't get me into trouble, you fool.”

  “We need to go to his distant cousin-nephew and inform him that we found his partner’s truck!” she shouted back.

  Ignoring her words, Steve slammed the front door behind him.

  “Asshole,” she thought.

  Helen was always annoyed by the excessive caution and sometimes even cowardice of her partner. Occasionally, it seemed to her that his ass had rooted in the soft office chair and that Steve was comfortable when there was nothing to do but get paid.

  The duty policeman re-appeared.

  “Are you done?” he asked wearily.

  “Yeah! I am sorry, Al. Operational issues, you know.”

  Helen put the photos and files back into the folder.

  “Well, thank God,” her colleague laughed, returning to his workplace. “I started to think you were a couple. It took so long to sort things out.”

  “A couple? With whom? With that?” she pointed after Steve. “Never! Even for a million dollars,” she said, barely hiding her embarrassment.

  There was a pause, which was broken by the creak of the chair on which Al sat.

  “Listen,” Helen interrupted the tense silence. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

  “Wow,” the policeman tried to joke. “I’ve told you. I have a wife and...”

  “I'm serious,” the officer interrupted. “I need your help.”

  “What?”

  “Here,” rummaging through the papers, Helen pulled out a photograph and handed it to him. “Run it through the database to see if those tires fit any of our BOLOs.”

  The policeman was clearly not happy with this imposition.

  “Since when?” he asked, sighing heavily.

  “Twelve months.”

  “Well, at least it’s not twelve years.”

  Helen smiled.

  “Thank you so much, you are really helping me out. But please do not waste your time on nonsense, like petty theft.”

  “And where shall I dig?”

  The officer shrugged.

  “Look for something serious – murders, drugs…”

  “Don’t you want to tell me anything, Helen?” Al inquired, trying to be sociable.

  “I would like to tell you that, Rosie got so lucky with you.”

  The police officer stood on her toes, leant over the counter, behind which her colleague was sitting, and kissed him on his bald head.

  “Be careful, Escamilla.” Al jokingly reached for handcuffs. “We have a lot of cameras. I’ll have to arrest you for sexual harassment.”

  “And I’m sure you will,” the interlocutor smiled. “Just let me get enough sleep tonight.”

  “Oh, get out of here, don't make me angry,” the policeman put the photograph closer to the computer, and his fingers ran across the keyboard.

  Before leaving the station, Helen, stopped at the entrance, and turned around.

  “Hey, what kind of pizza do you like? Just name it, it’s on me.”

  “Are you offering me a bribe?” Al said without looking away from hi
s work. “Let me tell you, you’re stepping very low.”

  His colleague remained silent, knowing there would be more.

  “Double Pepperoni. No need to ask stupid questions, ma'am.”

  Helen smiled and nodded. Leaving the station, she looked at the dark blue sky, full of cold clouds that covered the earth like a giant dome. It was cold – vapor escaped from her mouth each time she exhaled. Wrapped in her jacket she realized the townspeople had been premature in welcoming the warmer weather.

  She looked at her watch. “Hmm, Escamilla, a couple more of these late evenings at work, and even your dog will run away from you, never mind a husband,” she scolded herself lightly.

  Chapter 13

  Rita and her boss were sitting on the sixth floor of the eleven-story building, located at 1110 3rd Avenue, Seattle. The ponderous gray edifice with many windows was the local headquarters of the FBI. People working there were pleased to provide everything needed, to organize the meetings required by the two bigwigs from the main office in Washington, DC.

  The briefing room was, as in all federal service offices, cubic and empty. A white ceiling, a gray carpet, a large screen, a board on which you could write something, an impressive oval table with a black tabletop, and chairs on chromed steel legs, spaced around the table.

  Thanks to open shutters and transparent glass walls, separating the office from the corridor, the interior of the room was bright as in summer. The electronic clock on the wall showed 11:00 a.m.

  “I hate this country because it’s too big,” Benjamin grumbled quietly, standing by the window, and blowing on hellishly hot coffee that had just been brought to him. “There are countries with normal territory – the Vatican, Andorra, Luxembourg. I should have gotten a job there. With these damn flights, it takes several days to get over jet lags. You just get over it, and it’s back to Washington again.”

  Having taken a small sip, and burnt his tongue, he moved away from the window and sat next to Rita.

  “Thank God, sir, that this is not Russia, and we don’t have to fly from Moscow to Vladivostok,” she said indifferently, without distracting herself from documents laid out in front of her.

  “Don't show off before me, you’re not allowed to by rank.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Someone knocked on the thick heavy glass partition.

  The transparent doors opened, and the attractive dark-haired cop, who had carried out yesterday's brilliant interrogation, appeared in the room, wearing his black police uniform.

  “Good morning, I have a meeting with federal agents somewhere here. I can’t find room No. 13.”

  Benjamin and Rita stood up.

  “Come in, Alfred, we are the very federal agents you are supposed to meet.”

  The policeman stepped inside the spacious room.

  “Alfred Hope.” Smiling nervously, he held out his hand to the strangers.

  “Benjamin Blake, the Deputy Director of the FBI, and this is Rita Coleman, the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department.”

  Alfred shook hands with both in that order.

  This morning was unusual for him because on touching the woman’s palm he did not feel the usual aversity.

  “Have a seat,” she pointed to a chair on the side of the table.

  The young policeman nodded politely and sat down. His eyes were full of curiosity and light stress.

  Benjamin began his game. “We know everything about you, Alfred. We have a weighty folder here.”

  “Wow, the FBI has a folder on me.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hope,” Rita waded in. “You’ve got plenty to be proud of, but this is only from the two incomplete years that you remember.”

  The young policeman leaned back in his chair and carefully gazed at the big shots from the federal agency.

  “I don’t care if it sounds pretentious, but I'm just doing my job.”

  “Yes, I don’t disagree, but there are specific cases in which you excel.”

  “For instance?”

  “Let me do it, Rita,” Benjamin returned to the conversation. “Have you ever wondered why you can find pedophiles so easily, not just some Internet cock teasers, but the real villains, or those intending to commit a crime?”

  Alfred fidgeted in his chair.

  “I don't think I have any special skills. I just work a lot with children on those issues. And they always led me to the scum.”

  “Exactly!” the guest from Washington exclaimed. “You genuinely hate them. You don’t mince your words. I see how real fierce anger burns in your eyes when you come to the topic. You’re like an addicted dog, trained to search for cocaine, who will not stop until he finds it all.”

  Agreeing with him, the young cop relaxed. He did not like to talk about the details of his work and his motivation. At such moments, he felt naked, as if he was being interviewed by “Good Morning America”.

  “Yes, of course, there’s nothing to like them for.” He looked out of the window, trying to avoid Rita’s eyes which were staring at him intensely.

  The federal agent was observing him so intensely to understand who was sitting in front of her and whether she and her boss could risk revealing what they wanted.

  “Do you remember anything at all about your life before you lost your memory?” she asked.

  “No, nothing at all. From the first moments when I became aware of myself, I only remember pain, dizziness, and nausea. My first detailed recollection was a forest, and a train in which I rode in an unknown direction. At that time, I frequently lost consciousness and only nowadays with difficulty I can distinguish real events from dreams.”

  “What do you dream about these days?”

  Alfred glanced at the floor, pausing for a moment.

  “Nothing... I sleep soundly.”

  “Am I asking painful questions?” Rita bore down on Alfred.

  “Somewhat,” he replied calmly, looking directly into her eyes.

  “Don't take it too personally,” Benjamin reassured him. “You will soon understand why we ask them.”

  Rita glanced from time to time at a white sheet of paper with her notes on it. And then she continued.

  “Your story is incredibly creepy. Even Mr. Blake and I have never come across anything like it before.”

  “Congratulations, then.”

  Alfred wanted to make it clear that it was time to get down to business. Rita caught on.

  “Was someone looking for you, or maybe you were looking for somebody?”

  “You know, ma'am” – Alfred put his left hand on the table and leaned forward a little – “very few people are interested in ragged, beaten-up, tramps in this country. But I don’t care much about that because my appearance was so disgusting that, no matter what my past was, I don’t want to return to it.” He rubbed his forehead nervously. “When they found me and I began to recover, the local television came to me. They promised to start a search. National TV was about to arrive. I would become a celebrity. But this country has more important things to discuss. Everyday police officers kill an African American, or someone starts shooting in a college. I'm a cop, ma'am. If someone were looking for me, I would be the first to know about it.”

  “I am sorry about your personal tragedy,” Benjamin responded, looking at his subordinate with displeasure.

  “Why these questions?” Alfred pressed them. “Have you found something about my past?”

  The two officials exchanged looks.

  It was obvious that they wanted to say something but did not dare yet.

  Benjamin sighed heavily. “Listen, Alfred, it’s not easy for me to talk about these matters. Agent Coleman copes much better. For me, it’s a tragedy that tears my heart. You must know that. Apparently, you’re not aware, but two years ago a murder was committed in Indianapolis.”

  Alfred reacted nervously, as if preparing to defend himself from whatever unpleasant information might follow.

  “Someone killed the school bus driver,” continued Benjamin. “Th
e killer got behind the wheel of the bus and having driven along the pre-planned route, kidnapped five children, pupils at North West Central School. Exactly the ones whom he wanted. It is still unknown where the children are and who committed the crime. The criminal acted calmly and very confidently. He put the children to sleep with chloroform so that they would not resist.”

  Alfred felt slightly dizzy and his head throbbed.

  “Yes, it’s a terrible story, I’ve read about it on the Net,” the cop acknowledged. “Okay, why all these questions? What do I have to do with this?”

  “Mr. Hope, we are here” – Benjamin gently cut to the core – “because we believe you could help us find those children.”

  He got up, went to the window, and looked at the tops of neighboring buildings, caressed by the morning sun.

  Director Blake turned around. “Your skills, your weird intuition, might be the very impulse that is missing to get the investigation off the ground. We want to offer you a job, Alfred.”

  “Me?” the young policeman was flabbergasted.

  “Yes, Alfred, you. We have already agreed on all the necessary formalities with your superiors. They are ready to give you leave starting from tomorrow.”

  Alfred didn’t know how to react and what to say. Why should a simple patrolman be needed by the almighty FBI Deputy Director.

  “I'm just a simple cop from Seattle, and you are the federal service. It is not even in my jurisdiction. I don’t have the authority.”

  Rita had anticipated such questions and was ready with answers.

  “We invite you to join the operational unit as an external expert, or an adviser. It doesn’t matter. During your work with us, your salary will be increased. You’ll have the status of a special agent of the FBI, and the corresponding level of authority. We will provide transport and accommodation.”

  “Accommodation?” Alfred did not understand what was happening. “So, this is not a remote job?”