by R.M. Haig
September 17th, 2016. 1:15PM
Burlwood, Indiana
Jake broke every speed limit -- and very nearly the sound barrier -- in his race to twenty-four Confederate Way from Sarge's place in West Pine. The tiny specks and large drops of blood had long since dried on his jeans when he finally crossed into Bumfuck Burlwood and found himself within striking distance of Rusty. Though his dark shirt didn't show the stains as well as his pants did, he felt certain that his upper body had been soaked in the explosion of Grover's head far worse than his lower. Before setting off, he'd used his vanity mirror along with spit and his hands to wipe all evidence of the incident from the exposed flesh of his face, disgusted all the while. That act did little to relieve the surreal feeling that accompanied wearing another human being's blood and tissue all over him. He almost wanted a shower more than he wanted to bust Rusty, but he knew that desire was transient and far less pressing than the job he needed to do -- for Chucky's sake.
When he finally reached his destination, he squealed to a sliding stop just in front of Rusty's house and slammed the Malibu into park haphazardly. Leaping from the vehicle, he hoped that this half of the original Butchers Of Burlwood tag-team was taking a different and much less sudden approach to plan A than Grover had. He hoped there was still a chance to save him, if only so that he could be held to account for the murder of Billy Marsh and, in doing so, relieve Chucky of his unjust and undeserved suffering. When it was all boiled down, he would've been just as happy to find the man dead -- a just and overdue sentence for his crimes -- if not for the fact that Chucky needed saving. Sparing that fact, he was fully prepared and agreeable to seeing Rusty as a corpse... an end that he did deserve, in the face of his misdeeds.
Reaching the murderer's front door, Jake made no bother of knocking. Trying the doorknob, he found it to be securely locked and immediately started to assess the strength of the door and its frame in preparation for a more violent form of entry. Pulling back, he had more than a hundred additional pounds behind him in this attempt than he did when he last smashed his way into a home to determine the condition of someone he knew to be in peril. The weight served him well, as it took just two blasts of his lowered shoulder to see this particular door cave under his assault.
Barreling into the living area, he saw the frail body of Rusty Parker spread out on the couch before him. He was laying in a peaceful repose, positioned just as a fully embalmed corpse would be when placed in the tight confines of the casket that would be its eternal home. There was no sign of the nasal cannula he'd worn on Jake's previous visits, and the oxygen pump wasn't rumbling obnoxiously in the corner any more either. On the coffee table, just next to where the man seemed to be comfortably resting, was a pile of empty blue-raspberry flavored oral morphine vials.
There was no need to race to his side to check his pulse, no point in holding a mirror beneath his nose to see if he was breathing or in calling an ambulance to have paramedics attempt to resuscitate him with a defibrillator. It was obvious in his lazily hanging jaw, rigid posture and half-closed eyes that this man was long dead. He would give no testimony, he would offer no insight into how or why he killed little Billy Marsh. He would do nothing to help Chucky's case or to free him of the shackles he was wearing at the present.
Pounding his fist against the living room wall, Jake destroyed a portion of it in his anger and frustration. Scanning the scene visually, he noticed that there was something else on the table... something besides emptied and consumed bottles of narcotics, something besides the childproof caps strewn about, something besides the dosage regulating tops to the bottles that Rusty had ripped off in his haste to leave this world. On the far side, just beyond the gathered containers, was an envelope that had been carefully placed there. It was well clear of the mess and positioned to be found. It was very on purpose, as was the man's passing. Moving toward it, moving toward the body, Jake confirmed for good measure that Rusty's eyes were clouded and vacant. Looking to the table, in which he was far more interested, he saw a ballpoint pen placed as carefully as the letter, it's cap having been pushed snugly into place once the killer's final words were written.
Those final words, Jake assumed, were to whomever it may concern, which was written on the front of the envelope. Figuring that he was whomever it may concern in this instance, he quickly snatched the letter and recklessly tore it open. The note inside was a single hand-written page, scrawled out in an ill and trembling penmanship that struggled to maintain justification on a lined sheet of paper torn from a notebook.
To whomever it may concern, it began. Between the years of 1990 and 1995, I was actively involved in the murders of six children here in the town of Burlwood. Operating in concert with Grover Simmonds, I took part in the killings of Gary Duncan, Josh Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade, Ricky Marshall and Timothy Lane. In all instances, I was responsible for the sodomizing the children as my eye has always been partial to young boys, despite my efforts to redirect it. I participated in the process that lead to each of their deaths, which was handled exclusively by Grover in a manner that pertained to his spiritual beliefs. I personally dismembered and disposed of each victim, something that haunts my mind and my dreams every time that I close my eyes or sleep. Last month I was involved in the murder Billy Marsh, which took place here at my home, in my garage. As I prepare to take my own life, I stand penitent in the eyes of God. I beg His forgiveness for all that I've done in this, my final confession. May He take mercy on my soul, as I am a haunted man in the gloomy shadows of my crimes. I never meant to hurt anybody, but my mind is a tormented playhouse for the devil. May death wash my clean of these things that I've done. Amen, Russell Davis Parker.
Finishing the letter, Jake was furious at the old man. First, of course, as a result of Rusty's gall in reaching out to God after all of the ungodly things he'd carried out. Second, because he'd admitted culpability in the death of Billy Marsh -- but then left it open with a question mark. He seemed to absolve Grover of that crime, but did much less than claim full responsibility for the act. Clearly he'd had help, but -- even in his final breaths -- he refused to reveal the identity of his coconspirator. Third, of course, because the man had taken such a cowardly way out. There had likely been no pain, no suffering, no agony in his end. He likely just fell asleep, the taste of blue raspberry fresh on his tongue, and slipped away into eternity in peace and quiet. He deserved much more, he deserved much worse, and Jake would've liked to deliver that final justice -- in Timmy and Chucky's names.
As he stood sickened, the death letter dangling from his hands, he heard the quick and clumsy shuffling of feet in the direction of the front door. Looking back, he saw none other than Sheriff Ron Boudreaux standing in the busted doorway dressed in his ridiculous street clothes. In his white outfit, he more closely resembled Boss Hogg than any impersonator could ever hope to. He stumbled to a halt in the doorway, apparently having ran for probably the first time in many years, and beheld the scene with shock evident on his face.
"Why you son-of-a-bitch!" He croaked at Jake. "You found out he was one of my informants, so you came here and killed him! To save your bloated buddy Chucky from the death house, you killed this poor old man!"
Jake promptly snapped the letter in his hands, turning it towards the suspended Sheriff as though he had a chance of reading it from his distance.
"I didn't do shit to your boy, Ron, the lousy fuck killed himself!" He snapped.
Boudreaux, dumbfounded, stepped closer to try and examine the letter. Jake promptly dropped it, forcing the fat man to bend over and pick it up to get a look. He looked genuinely surprised as he mouthed the words written on its face, but still he maintained an air of accusation about him. As though the letter meant nothing, despite the facts being spelled out so clearly in the old man's own handwriting.
"Right," he quipped. "Now I suppose you'll be going for my second witness, you murderous punk!"
"Just look at my pants
, Ron!" Jake said, matching the attitude note for note. "Your second witness spread himself all over me!"
Now the former sheriff looked totally stunned, eyeing Jake up and down and examining the amount of dried blood on his clothing in horror.
"Sweet Santa Muerte!" He barked. "You just freeze right there, you crazy little shit! I'm calling the police, and I'll see that you have a room right next to Chucky's on death row! You killed him, you punk! To save your little butt-buddy, you killed the man! You probably want me to believe he killed himself too, right? You probably think I'll buy that he broke such a covenant! Well you're wrong, Jake, you just freeze right there!"
"You believe what you want," Jake fired back, not heeding the former officer's orders as he moved towards the door, "but the gun is still in his hand, Ron, just drive your ass out to West Pine and you'll see it!"
"West Pine?" Boudreaux returned, surprised again. "West Pine? Are you talking about Grover? Are you tellin' me that Grover shot himself?"
Jake stopped mid-stride, processing the information implied in Deputy Ron's surprise. When he was speaking of his second confidential informant, when he thought Jake was responsible for that person's death, he was not thinking about Grover Simmonds. That much was clear. That meant Sarge wasn't the second CI on deck for The State's case against Chucky.
But if not him, who?
Who else could it possibly be?
Working the problem over, he walked to Boudreaux's side and snatched the letter from his filthy fat hands. "I'll be turning this over to the police!" He said with a bite. With the bastard still looking stunned, still confused, Jake moved to the busted door and issued a parting taunt. "The walls are closing in, Ron," he said, "you might want to consider ways that you can avoid prison. Maybe you should take a note from your two pals!"
Without a further word or look behind, he left twenty-four Confederate Way and reported to the Malibu. When he sat surrounded with the familiar air inside the cabin, everything started to sink in with incredible weight behind it. The things he'd heard, the things he'd seen, the things he'd read on this day -- they were a lot to digest. As he tried to force it all through his system, the thoughts that rose to the top were about the way that Rusty looked after his overdose. It stood in unbelievable juxtaposition to the look of the last overdose victim he'd been forced to look upon. That image came swirling back, an image he'd managed to forget in the years gone by, and it tormented him.
The image was awful, and he was angry that his mind had conjured it up. He didn't have to wonder why it did so, though, as he heard his phone ringing he realized that it was all perfectly obvious. There were too many reminders, too many common threads for it not to. The equation was simple...
Overdose plus Ron Boudreaux, plus Donnell's name on his radio display as his cellphone rang equals...
Equals...
