Almost Mortal

by Chris Leibig

  This week, I turned fifteen. Miguel promised me a gift, which he claimed would arrive on Saturday. I couldn’t really imagine what sort of gift he meant, but I was still curious, and indeed, even mildly excited about it. Saturday came, and as the day wore on, Miguel declined to mention the gift. Before beginning Miguel’s dinner, I went out to look for him. We had a small shed behind our shack for storing tools, no bigger than a large outhouse, really. Miguel told me he always kept it locked and ordered me never to approach it. This time I did and opened the unlocked door. A gruesome odor emerged, much like the smell of a dead dog’s pen. Miguel was kneeling down in front of a young boy who was strapped to the wall, masked, and softly moaning. I knew what Miguel was up to (did I ever!). I turned and calmly walked away. That night, Miguel spoke to me about the matter as if it were as trifling as my having forgotten his dinner. He warned me to say nothing to anyone about the ghoul out in the shed. In Spanish it sounds much more elegant—demonico was the word he used.

  Miguel’s ghoul didn’t horrify me. That he would kidnap, sexually abuse, and eventually kill innocent young boys was so utterly predictable that it barely caused a ripple in my psyche, and this scares me. I also understand and empathize with the ghoul’s suffering, but I can’t cry for him. His suffering was just a fraction of the nearly bottomless amount of human misery that took place during that week. Very, very nearly irrelevant to anyone except the ghoul—who himself surely found others’ suffering fundamentally meaningless. I am worried I am a monster too, like Miguel.

  That night, I pushed a knife into Miguel’s heart while he slept. His eyes opened, and he fully comprehended my act several seconds before his light went out. Though his fists and fingers had dealt liberally with me for years, he declined to resist as the sharp blade eased between his ribs. I wondered if his eyes would say sorry before going dead, but instead, they said thank you. As always, it was all about him.

  I hiked with ten-year-old Paul out of town, front pocket bulging with the three thousand pesos Miguel had somehow managed to hoard. We trudged down a long dirt road towards the mountains. I wanted to get high enough to see the glistening lakes on both sides of the divide. As we sat quietly, taking in the grandeur of those views, I realized that I hadn’t killed Miguel because of what he did to that boy or because of what he regularly did to Paul and me or even because I had always doubted that Trinity had really run away. The event had simply been coming for a while, for a thousand reasons, and we both knew it.

  We made our way across Argentina towards Buenos Aires on a motorcycle I stole from a roadside vegetable stand. Paul laughed as we sped away, the motorcycle’s owner yelling after us hopelessly. He called us maggots, parasites.

  I sit now, near Paul, in the center of a large, empty field by the dirt road. I hope no fellow travelers approach us, because I have no idea what to say or do. Sometimes I think that much of what I see is not even real, like the dirty aura darting around a lying street vendor’s head or the angelic glow around Paul’s when he sleeps.

  My mother had come to me the day after she died. She let me touch her, caressed my head, and promised me that no matter what I felt, I was never really alone. I hate that she believed she had to go. To leave me again. But as she put it, resurrected ones should never linger for too long. “Jesus knew that, and so do I.” Her promise to always be with me in my heart was not very consoling. As quickly as she had come, she was down the mountain road and out of town. Despite what my mother said, I feel so alone and scared. I wish I were an angel, like I feel my mother may have been. But I worry that I am just crazy. Or even a demon.

  Maybe those like my mother or me are always born to a chosen or forgotten people.

  CHAPTER 5

  “WE, THE JURY, IN the case of the Commonwealth of Virginia versus Scarfrowe, find the defendant, Jonathon P. Scarfrowe, guilty of the crime of simple abduction.”

  The jury foreman folded the verdict form in front of him. His fierce gaze triumphantly lanced Scarfrowe. An outraged scoff burst from the victim’s father, who sat in the front row behind Broadas. Her mother cried out, “No!”

  Scarfrowe raised his arms in the air like goalposts. “Praise God!” He then began to dance a small, slow-motion jig.

  The judge scowled and shook his head. “Cut that out, Mr. Scarfrowe.”

  The jurors looked confused by the various courtroom emotions. They were not permitted to know, until after the verdict, that because they had found Scarfrowe guilty of regular abduction instead of abduction with intent to sexually molest, he could now receive only five years in prison instead of a mandatory life sentence under the three-strike sex offender law. He had already served nearly a year, and with good-behavior credit, he would be out in about two and a half more. Amelia had successfully sold Scarfrowe’s going-for-the-purse ploy without alerting the jury to the colossal sentencing difference that would follow if they found a reasonable doubt on the purse-versus-crotch issue. Strange days, indeed.

  Sam congratulated Amelia and told her he would see her later at the bar, where she would undoubtedly go to celebrate with the younger lawyers in the office. He then leaned close to her.

  “Nice job on the quote,” he whispered. “The foreman read it. The prick read it. I can see it all over his face. You’re the best.” He could feel Amelia’s heart glow with pride.

  Sam phoned Dr. J. as he raced down the steps two at a time. “How early can we get together?”

  “I’m meeting with FBI scientists at four; not sure how long that’ll be. Really, it’s a little crazy right now.”

  “All this time to get one result?”

  “More than one result. I can’t really go into it right now. The whole state is watching. Shit, Main Justice and the national media are watching. They’re keeping the whole lab on this Ripper case all the time. I’ve got nineteen untouched, overdue files from other cases stacked in my office. Seriously.”

  “I hear you. I’ll be at Luigi’s at seven thirty. If you make it, you make it.” Sam stepped out of the courthouse and lit a cigarette, listening to the silence over the phone.

  “Hmmmm.”

  CHAPTER 6

  SAM WALKED INTO HARPOON Hannah’s, a cheesy, touristy bar across the street from Luigi’s. Barnabus Farley already had vodka, straight, on the bar for him. They hugged. A pro-forma hug, more like a show of respect than affection.

  “Samson,” his client said. Somehow, Barnabus was able to not look out of place standing at a bar, holding a drink, a cigarette behind his ear, while wearing head-to-toe hospital-issued scrubs. His new day job, a nurse’s assistant at Bennet County Hospital, while admirable to be sure, could not possibly pay for a quarter of his lifestyle.

  “Hey, what was that thing you told me the other day about the Titans?” Barnabus referred to an old conversation they’d had about pro football. Sam knew it was just small talk, leading up to the kicker.

  “I said I’d never take heavy action against an opponent of the Tennessee Titans because their team name is dumb. The Olympians overthrew the Titans—Greek mythology one-oh-one. I couldn’t believe they named the team after losers.”

  Barnabus was about six foot five, three-hundred-and-fifty pounds. Sam had to admit he didn’t look like a bookie and drug dealer. He looked like an oafish, funny, fat guy. His appearance had served him well over the years.

  “Why’d you learn all that shit about the Greeks and Romans and stuff?”

  “Because I hate math. But never mind that. I’ve got a date across the street in an hour. What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Barnabus smirked goofily, signifying he had done something he knew was stupid. Barnabus did not accept the proposition that being a rather big-time cocaine dealer was stupid, only that it was stupid to make little mistakes doing it, stupid to get caught.

  “I’ve told you before, half of Bennet County drug users are snitches. You need to get a new racket, dude.”

  Barnabus turned his attention to the wide-screen television above the bar and clappe
d. “Yeah, baby!” On the screen, a Washington Nationals player rounded the bases. “You know, that’s a nice TV. High-def. You like it?”

  “Of course I like it, Barnabus, but you think we should talk about your problem?”

  “I just won ten of ’em. And you got one comin’.”

  “Great.” Sam meant it, but he felt awkward about Barnabus Farley funding his life with expensive gifts. But Barnabus believed, possibly accurately, that he owed his freedom to Sam. A nice little place to be. “But you really need to stop selling. It’s not a viable long-term strategy.”

  “I know, I know. But this is something else. Look, I don’t have a charge. Not yet, anyway. I rented this warehouse, you know, more like a big storage room. At one of those little places.”

  “Ugh, Barnabus, you can’t use storage places. The owners of those things are all working with the cops.”

  “Okay, okay, but it wasn’t drugs. Anyway, they searched my storage place, and now they want me to come in for questioning.”

  “About what?”

  “They say they found two thousand cartons of cigarettes.”

  “They say?”

  “They found two thousand cartons of cigarettes.”

  “Where’d you get them?”

  “Bought ’em.”

  “Legally?”

  “Tax stamps from Virginia and everything.”

  “Where?”

  “A bunch of different stores—Costco, Super-Buy, those kinds of places. All fully legal, Cochise. I got receipts.”

  “This isn’t the cops; it’s the FBI, isn’t it?”

  Barnabus took a hasty sip of his beer, spilling some down his chin while he fished into his pocket and pulled out a rumpled business card. Donavon Moncrieffe. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.

  “ATF, FBI, same difference. It’s federal.”

  “Does that mean I’m fucked?” Barnabus finished his beer, bobbed his finger at the bartender for another, and winked.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Theoretically, there’s nothing wrong with you having cigarettes.”

  “I hear you. I smoke a lot, coupla packs a day. Maybe I can explain that to ’em.”

  “You know, the level at which you’re full of shit is utterly staggering. You’re not going to speak to them, Barnabus.”

  “If I don’t speak to them, they’re gonna assume I’m guilty of something, right?”

  “They already know you’re guilty of something. The only question is whether they can prove it. They’re not going to believe any explanation, so there’s no point in giving one.”

  Barnabus frowned. “So I’m fucked.”

  “You’re not fucked. It depends on what other evidence they have.”

  “They don’t have shit. It’s the first time I’ve bought cigarettes like that.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever, bro. Except once before, last year, but there’s no way they know about that.”

  Two thousand cartons. Barnabus had been fixing to make at least fifteen, maybe sixteen, dollars per carton selling the Virginia-taxed cigarettes to street salesmen in tax-heavy New York or Boston. Chinatown, most likely.

  “You know what I’ve always wondered? How do the guys in New York get away with selling so many individual unstamped packs?”

  “That’s above my pay grade, Cochise. Besides, if I were to answer that question, you might think I have some knowledge of illegal activity.” Barnabus winked.

  “You know I’m not supposed to take cases that aren’t appointed through the public defender’s office. It carries a risk for me.”

  “That’s all bullshit. You gonna help me or not?” Barnabus raised his eyebrows twice quickly, his way of humanizing himself as the endearing goofball. “And I don’t forget favors. You know me, bro. I guarantee, you do this for me, one of these days I’ll bring you the biggest case you’ve ever had.”

  “Barnabus, you’ve got to quit this shit. No more cases.”

  “No more cases for me. But mark my words. Hey, I know a lotta people. I’m your gift that keeps on giving, chief.”

  With Barnabus’s generous fees and constant need of legal help, that was certainly a true statement. Ever since Barnabus had sought Sam out two years ago, Sam had earned more from doing side cases for Barnabus and his associates than his actual public defender salary. Sam put two fingers on his lips, as if pondering an important question.

  “I guess now is a good time to talk about my fee.”

  Barnabus lifted his glass for a toast. “Fuck the fuzz.”

  •••

  Sam sat at a table alone, staring at the sweat on his first beer at Luigi’s.

  “Thanks, Crystal,” he said into his phone. “Yes. Test Sherita Owings before court. Don’t let her refuse. Yes, I agree to it. A full urine test.”

  Sam hung up and dropped his phone onto the table. He glanced towards the door. No Dr. J. He took a long swig of beer, feeling it hit his stomach and then pulsate through the rest of his body. He stared back down at his folder and pulled out his pen. Articles about the Rosslyn Ripper. As always, the police were holding back critical facts about all three crimes so as to eliminate copycat suspects and test the veracity of any informants or confessors who stepped forward. Even so, the police press office had put forward a compelling portrait of pattern killings.

  Victim Number One: Mary Beth Schneider, age twenty-seven, single. No family in the area. A dental hygienist. Killed in the woods near the D-Day Memorial, about seventy-five feet from a public path down the hill from the monument itself, on May 10, 2015. Head almost completely severed by a sharp object. Face unrecognizably mauled. No forensic evidence at all—at least none that was being released.

  Victim Number Two: Carol Kingsley, thirty-three, divorced. A paralegal. Body found only five hundred yards from where Schneider’s had been. Also on D-Day Park property, but much further into the woods, on June 6, 2015. Face unrecognizable.

  Victim Number Three: Joni West, twenty-eight, social worker, single. Killed behind the barricade separating Highway 1 from the D-Day Park on July 2, 2015. On her way home from the subway. Head found nearby in the woods. Sam envisioned the murderer hacking it off with some kind of weapon and tossing the head into the woods, maybe swinging it around by the hair first. Sam looked at Joni’s picture. She was smiling broadly, her arm around an older woman in some kind of beach setting.

  No wonder the investigation was being pursued by the FBI as well as state authorities. All three murders were on federal property.

  Sam broke out of his trance just in time to see Dr. J. bustle past the hostess. Her thin frame and long, bouncing, black ponytail stood out in any crowd. In addition to thinking too fast, Juliana walked faster than any person Sam had ever met, her skinny legs effortlessly cranking out extremely long strides for a person who stood only five foot one. No knockout by normal standards, but beautiful nevertheless, a brainy, unpretentious, almost clueless kind of beautiful.

  She gave Sam a mock frown and slumped into her chair. “Sorry. Late.” She swept up the drink menu and looked around for the waitress.

  “Not a problem,” Sam said. “Any big news?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it.” She ordered a wine, leaned back, and took a deep breath. “Or maybe you would.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows.

  “You’re weird like that,” she said. “By the way, congratulations. I hear you got your creep off after all.”

  “Amelia did a great job.” He took a long sip of his new drink, a vodka tonic. “So fill me in. The Ripper.”

  Juliana leaned forward, looking around. She whispered, not only to prevent others from hearing but also to make the point that what she was saying was, in theory, a secret.

  “The FBI is involved. This is, like, really classified, or whatever. Seriously, the entire lab staff from Main Justice is on this.”

  “So that means you can’t tell me until we get back to your place?”

  Juliana turned away. She breathed deeply again and for a rare mome
nt, sat perfectly still.

  “A few drinks first?”

  •••

  Juliana’s skinny legs gripped Sam around the waist. As they became more and more frenzied, Sam sensed the onset of her signature move. Her ankles hooked together on top of his back for one final squeeze before she climaxed. She had the manoeuver down to a predictable science. It was a sexual proclivity that stuck in his mind during the days or weeks between his visits to Juliana’s condo.

  Sam rolled off her, his upper body and hair soaked with sweat. He reached for a glass of water on the side table but instead got the second half of his beer. He downed it, knowing he was pushing his absurd level of dehydration even higher.

  Juliana climbed off the bed and sauntered into her bathroom. “You have an early day tomorrow?”

  Sam laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving.” His lungs hurt—the scratchy, chalky feeling of another day on cigarettes, coffee, and booze.

  Juliana yanked the door open. “That’s not what I meant!” She stood off-kilter, so unselfconscious in all her skinniness.

  Sam liked it that she knew he’d gotten her. It had been exactly what she meant, her soon-to-be ex-husband, a local cop, and a jealous one, probably scoped out her apartment regularly. The last thing she needed was a hungover guy creeping out of her place in the morning, especially a local defense lawyer who knew the ex.

  “Bullshit,” Sam said. “But first, the Ripper. Whatcha got?”

  “It’s the weirdest thing.” Juliana now lay on the bed, hands behind her head. She spoke into the air like a patient on a therapist’s couch. “You know how the basic DNA typing works?”

  “The basics, yeah. I can read the typing chart and the underlying documents. Even the, what do you call it, the allele call sheet. But I can’t follow how you guys come up with the DNA profile in the first place. That’s out of my league.”