Monster: The Story Of A Maniac

by Peter Cry

  “No. You will have to fly to Indianapolis, where our operational office is. We need you to be as close to the crime scene as possible.”

  Alfred glanced at Rita and then at Benjamin.

  “Are you really so desperate that you need a patrolman with such limited experience?”

  Benjamin adopted a sterner look.

  “Yes, to be honest. For two years we have been marking time. In addition to chloroform, and tire prints left near the bus on the outskirts of Indianapolis, we have nothing. We are tired of feeding promises to the relatives who spend nights outside our operational office. And the authorities in Washington have driven me crazy, stressing that America is expecting a miracle from us.”

  “We need your mystical luck and flair, Alfred,” Rita added, noticeably friendlier in tone. “Public interest in this case is falling, police departments are responding to requests slower, and there are fewer and fewer people wishing to work on such a case. Not everyone can deal with child pornography and the constant questionings of marginals in the unflagging hope of finding at least one of the abducted, or at least their bodies.”

  Benjamin got up from his chair and went and sat alongside Alfred.

  “Since we had been investigating the case, we have put away several pedophiles for storing pornography. But you understand that’s not what is expected of us. We need to find the children, dead or alive, and put the perpetrator of the murder and abduction on the electric chair.”

  Alfred realized that the old dog with vast experience in operational work knew perfectly how to get under the skin of other people to obtain what he needed.

  “I’m the FBI Deputy Director and I report only to Director Christopher Ray. We play golf with him on Sundays. I’m sure that if we manage to close this case, I could help you say goodbye to the hard work of a patrolman.”

  As if hypnotized, Alfred muttered quietly, “I like my work.”

  “Nobody disagrees,” Benjamin continued to envelop his victim like a snake. “Why not make it more interesting? I think it will be more fun to work on the streets of Seattle with the status of a national hero.”

  The crescendo had been reached.

  There is no policeman who doesn’t dream of being an FBI agent, wearing a nice suit with all the special privileges. God, what an alluring prospect for Alfred to say that sacred phrase at least once in his life: “This case is under my jurisdiction!”

  He stood up, his head buzzing. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “It's important that you know,” Rita said officiously, “tomorrow we have a flight to Indianapolis at 10:30 a.m. If you don’t answer before 10:00 p.m. tonight, we’ll fly without you.”

  “Think about it,” Benjamin held out his hand. “It could be a great opportunity for you to radically change your life. Benjamin Blake doesn’t fly to personally offer a job to everybody.”

  “But I have to understand if it will change my life for better or worse,” Alfred commented while shaking hands with Benjamin.

  “Just in case, I will reserve a ticket for you in the first class. If you accept our offer, pay for it, and upon your arrival in Indianapolis we will reimburse you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And by the way, here, take it.” Benjamin pulled out a business card from the inside pocket of his gray jacket and gave it to Alfred. “Unlike Agent Coleman, you can call me until 11:00.”

  The policeman turned to shake hands with the first woman in his conscious life whose touch did not cause him unpleasant sensations.

  Rita seemed unhappy that a simple patrolman had not immediately agreed to such an attractive offer from the gentleman from Washington. She placed her papers and folders in her black austere leather case and acted as if no serious discussion had taken place.

  “Goodbye,” Alfred said quietly, looking at her.

  “All the best,” Rita answered indifferently.

  Emotionally drained, Alfred left.

  “You could have been softer with him,” Benjamin scolded his subordinate. “Not everyone knows that a shark, ready to tear to pieces all those beneath her, is hiding behind your fragile, attractive, appearance.”

  Rita reassured her boss. “He will agree.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. And he will do that because I hurt him with my arrogance.”

  Benjamin shook his head. A caustic smile full of skepticism appeared on his face.

  “You are single, Coleman, precisely because you think men are like that.”

  “No, sir, I don't think so. But it will affect him. Plus, he’s a good cop who knows that he doesn’t belong on the streets of Seattle.”

  Rita's boss gave up. “Let's hope he will call. And before you have completely ruined my illusions about this day, let's go and have something to eat.”

  Without waiting for approval or consent, he left the office. Grabbing her case from the locker, Rita hurried after her boss.

  ***

  In his dark bedroom, in his underwear, Alfred sat on the edge of his crumpled bed. He twisted the business card in his hand and nervously glanced again and again at his watch.

  Through the feint light, the red numbers showed 01:43 a.m. Alfred sighed. He had not called Benjamin Blake, and it was obviously too late to do that. Something confused him about the entire story. It had smelled of something rotten.

  It was one thing to catch old perverts drooling over little boys in his native Seattle, and quite a different matter to unravel a forgotten nationwide affair. As a completely inexperienced policeman, whose talent lay in his magnificent intuition, he understood that a crime such as this, killing a bus driver and kidnapping children, had been arranged by a truly monstrous, sophisticated, mind with whom he wasn’t ready to clash, neither as a policeman nor as a man.

  The tops of the night maples were visible outside his small window. Their leaves were disturbed by a feeble night wind. The pleasant noise penetrated his bedroom and broke the gloomy silence that oppressed him.

  It seemed to him that if he left the city which had become his hometown, he would lose the remnants of what made him – a man with a name, surname, at least some acquaintances and the most minimal history. And there, in Indianapolis, it would take him a lot of time to get used to the environment, the streets, and a new apartment.

  Alfred looked around his bedroom. However empty and lonely it was, devoid of human, and especially female company, he was at home there. A man without a past and no roots, he had established himself there.

  He made his decision – he wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, he had made that decision when he left the FBI. If it were not for that bitch, who had raised his cold-blooded temper.

  He could try to sleep and hope her impudent image would vanish. But the residual impressions would bother him when he could not sleep.

  For some reason, Alfred felt sorry for Agent Rita Coleman. Yes, she was an attractive woman with a nice figure. But hollow cheeks and dark circles under large amber almond-shaped eyes, masked with her make-up, hid either nervousness or chronic fatigue. The sophisticated guest from Washington seemed slim but not thin. They say about such people that they are very unhappy, something is constantly eating them from the inside, so they don’t put on weight.

  “Maybe it's just because she’s black...” He was still trying to understand why the first handshake did not bring him any instant discomfort.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said to himself. “She’s a cold, arrogant bitch and I have to put her in her place. The fact that she has a federal agent badge and a bank account doesn’t give her the right to treat everyone like garbage.”

  Alfred threw the business card on the bedside table next to his bed and lay down. Pulling a blanket over himself, he put his hand under his head and stared at the white ceiling.

  “That’s right,” he continued the silent dialogue with himself. “I’ll show the bitch her place, and I’ll do it gracefully so everyone can see it. Or... I’ll invite her for coffee."

  ***<
br />
  Seattle-Tacoma Airport is in the small town of Sea-Tac. Situated between two larger cities, it could hardly boast of being conspicuously attractive or claim the title of an architectural masterpiece. It served its main function, and that was enough.

  Benjamin and his colleague Agent Rita Coleman were sitting at a small table in a huge and spacious waiting room. A large window about sixty feet high filled the entire rear of the room, serving as a perfect viewing platform from where everyone could watch arriving and departing aircraft. The high-ranking guests from Washington felt uncomfortable among the numerous noisy passengers hurrying to catch their flights. Benjamin kept looking at the timetable, eager to see the cherished “Seattle – Indianapolis” sign.

  “Well, our master of NLP, are you satisfied now?” he turned to Rita.

  Before answering, she waited until a woman announcing departing and arriving flights finished speaking.

  “I made a mistake, sir, and I beg your pardon.”

  “I will deduct the money for the trip from your salary, because it turned out to be completely unproductive.”

  Agent Coleman understood that her boss was grumpy, not because he wasn’t satisfied with the outcome of the trip, but because he did not get enough sleep.

  “Fair enough,” she agreed.

  Benjamin turned his gaze through the window at the knotty network of runways that were completely empty at that moment.

  “I need to close this case, Coleman,” he said, becoming candid. “I will be frank with you. Children are children, crime is crime, and careers are careers. But if I do not solve it, I’m getting nothing from Washington.”

  Rita had got used to the cynicism of her boss, which was his true motivation everywhere and in everything, so in response, she always smiled coldly and nodded in agreement. Mr. Blake had no idea that his loyal executive employee considered him a conformist and a slippery fish who always thought only of himself and his career. She was silent because she herself had been the same until recently, more precisely until the moment when she was put in charge of the abduction case. Day after day, staring at the photographs of the abducted children, she became less indifferent and increasingly dreamed of finding them, blaming herself for the fact that the investigation was not getting anywhere.

  “We will certainly solve it,” she said calmly.

  The letters on the electronic board suddenly changed, and a new line appeared.

  “Finally,” Benjamin stood up heavily from his seat. “Where are we going?”

  “Terminal seven, gate three.”

  Rita pulled a handle up from her suitcase and, tilting it, followed her boss towards the plane. Having passed all the smiling people checking documents and tickets, they went inside.

  The first class was half-full, but next to the place where Rita was supposed to sit, someone was already parked by the window. She tapped the stranger gently and he turned towards her. To her great surprise and relief, it was Alfred.

  “Hello, colleague,” she greeted him.

  “Hello, Miss Coleman,” he smiled with restraint, holding out his hand.

  “So, you’ve made a decision.”

  “Yes. I think I would have been deeply sorry if I’d not used this chance.”

  Rita smiled and held out her hand in response.

  “Welcome aboard.”

  Alfred touched the thin palm of his new boss’s hand with the tips of his fingers, remembering and analyzing his sensations.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve saved yourself a pot of money, Coleman,” the powerful Benjamin uttered, making his way between the rows.

  He was also pleased. “Welcome aboard,” he told Alfred.

  “Thank you, that’s what Rita just told me.”

  “Great, you’ll pal up,” Benjamin said somewhat uncertainly.

  “Please, take your seats and fasten your seatbelts,” a flight attendant instructed, approaching the trio. “We're taking off soon.”

  The first class remained half-empty. Rita looked around and realized that she could easily choose another window seat, and there was no need to ask anyone for a favor.

  Putting her bag in the storage compartment over her head, she sat beside Alfred and fastened her seatbelt.

  Benjamin patted the rookie on the shoulder and headed for his seat.

  “Are you afraid of flying?” Rita asked, seeing her neighbor was worried.

  “I don't know,” he answered perplexedly.

  The jet engines warmed up, and the huge Boeing headed for the runway. After half a mile of gray concrete, the plane gently took off.

  Chapter 14

  Helen Escamilla stood ankle-deep in her gumboots in cold mud. She was not worried about their cleanliness. She was more concerned that, despite having put on a warm jacket, thermal underwear, and woolen socks, she was cold.

  In mid-March, the sun was still not warm, making the environment even more unbearable. Melting snow drifts turned any surface except asphalt into a black cold porridge.

  Enveloped by trees on the road used by a couple of strange farmers to reach the highway leading to Hampton, she, was warming her hands in her pockets, and straining to capture the sound of an approaching car.

  Helen had left her duty vehicle at the police station. There was nowhere to conceal it near the suspicious farm. A companion had given her a lift to her destination and disappeared over the horizon.

  That vigil among the bare gloomy trees a dozen miles from Hampton would surely appear foolish to her partner. That’s why she left him a note on her desk with coordinates where he could find her if needed, as well as the reason why she had decided on the venture.

  By the time Helen had appeared at work, Al was no longer there. The poor fellow was so exhausted from sitting in one place all night that as soon as he had a chance, he fled home, dreaming of a soft bed. Her colleague had not forgotten about Officer Escamilla’s request. He had left several sheets on the table in her office.

  Looking through them, she found almost nothing intriguing. The pages listing where traces of Goodyear summer tires had been found were full of monotonous and repetitive data – theft, and robbery of small shops and roadside cafes.

  “Oh, Al...” Helen muttered indignantly, not understanding why he had done so much unnecessary work.

  She was ready to crumple up the pages filled with useless information when she noticed something interesting. Tires with the same tread pattern had been found near a school bus on the outskirts of Indianapolis, where five children had been abducted.

  When Helen read that, it got to her. She recalled the scream she thought she heard in winter at the house where Jason Frost lived. And she remembered the tragedy of her native Hampton – the loss of the dearest girl and perfect student, Lily. With her adrenalin flowing, those details merged into one. Her suspicions about the two men living near the cornfield might not be unfounded after all.

  Helen did not waste valuable time on talking to her colleagues and thinking it over. She sent an email, took the necessary clothes from home, and armed with two guns, and without saying a word to anyone, rushed over to the mysterious house.

  Helen understood there might not be anyone in the house, which meant she was slandering people in vain. That is why, after waiting for the owner of the house to leave, the police officer planned to discreetly check everything inside, and if she found nothing, would simply forget about the whole story. But she had to check out the place so that during long lonely nights she wouldn’t be tormented by the thought, “and what if…”

  Officer Escamilla heard a diesel engine starting.

  “Okay,” she told herself, leaning against a thick tree, “here we go.”

  She waited for a pickup truck to drive past her. After a while, the black Toyota Tacoma appeared. Hidden by a tree, Helen watched it drive past. She took out her chrome revolver and carefully approached the house.

  Holding her revolver with two hands, the policewoman went onto the porch. Raising her right hand, she kno
cked several times on the door with her fist. Having made sure there was nobody in the house, she took two steps back and kicked the white wooden door with her dirty rubber boot. After a second strong kick, the lock gave way and the door opened.

  Excited, Helen held the gun in front of her and slowly entered the house. She walked along a corridor leading to the back door and a staircase to the first floor. Glancing around cautiously, she kept her revolver at the ready. The living room and the kitchen were neat and tidy. It did not look like a place belonging to a maniac or a pedophile.

  The cop still needed to check the owner’s bedrooms, the closets where personal things were kept away from the eyes of strangers.

  Lily sat in her tiny torture chamber, where she had everything to survive. Her reality had dissolved, undermining the remnants of a healthy psyche. Panic attacks had begun to torment her recently. It seemed that she was suffocating and that her heart was about to stop. The most disgusting thing about these attacks was not the process, but the result. They ended in nothing. The girl had not suffocated, nor died. Yes, once, at the peak of her panic and galloping heartbeat she felt she was losing consciousness. At that moment, Lily experienced how all the anxieties, pain and terrible memories left her mind and stopped tormenting her.

  “Finally,” she had thought.

  A lone pure tear managed to roll out of her beautiful eyes before she collapsed on the floor. Lily was sure she was dying and was happy about that. She had only passed out.

  When she had woken up, she cried for a long time. Without tears, because she had no tears left. Lily preserved one last tear for her death, so that at least someone would cry after her. Fate took even that away from the poor girl.

  Lily thought she heard someone knocking on the front door. After a few seconds, she heard a sound as if someone had smashed in that door. She dismissed it as another hallucination. Lying on the floor in her old gray dress, turned on her left side with her knees bent, and her two palms under her head, Lily closed her eyes. She hoped she would be able to fall asleep and dream about her mother.

  Helen crept up to the second floor. The energy inside the house was oppressive. An absolute acoustic and emotional vacuum. There were no pictures, nor photographs, nor crucifixes, anywhere.