Eye for Eye

by J K Franko

  Eddie shared that he was expecting to get a copy of the surveillance video from the hotel first thing Monday and that he’d be going through it as soon as it arrived.

  * * *

  Often, a short trip to a place that differs significantly from one’s day-to-day life can afterwards feel otherworldly. In the case of their vacation in Bimini, Roy had also been sleep-deprived at times. And, of course, the main focus of the trip had been so foreign from his daily life as to be almost surreal. It stood in stark contrast to his work-a-day Miami living. Thus, it did not surprise me when he later confessed that, at times, the whole thing seemed like a dream.

  Upon returning from Bimini, he craved normality.

  Roy went back to work on Monday.

  He and David touched on the Harlan situation at their morning catch-up meeting, but swiftly moved on with the rest of the agenda.

  From his research, Roy knew that it would take the police some time to get their act together. All they had at this point was a missing twenty-something male with a history of partying who’d flown to Miami for a business meeting but never showed up.

  It would take a while for the police to begin to truly suspect foul play. And, they would need to coordinate across two jurisdictions—Austin, Texas and Miami, Florida—further complicating matters and slowing things down.

  Roy knew that with time evidence would get stale. Security camera footage would be erased or filmed over. Any potential witnesses who may have seen something—Roy and Harlan walking around near the marina, the Yellowfin in the bay—would already be forgetting it. The more time that went by, the less anyone would recall.

  As you know, Roy had planned everything carefully, but he acknowledged that there was no way of controlling or accounting for the unknown.

  However, one thing was certain. The longer it took the police to get into gear, the better.

  What Roy didn’t know was that the police were about to pick up the pace.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  West Lake Hills—shortened by locals to Westlake—is an Austin suburb minutes from downtown. It lies on either side of the Colorado River and claims some of the most beautiful homes in the city.

  Although it sits in the midst of a city of over 1.5 million people, Westlake has managed to retain a green, natural, unspoiled feel. Raccoons, opossums, squirrels, owls, and snakes (occasionally of the poisonous variety) are common. Deer can be seen on most mornings, grazing in the yards—a blessing in the eyes of some, large rats in the eyes of others.

  In Westlake, the banks of the Colorado River rise relatively quickly in parts, creating hills with beautiful views to the west and to downtown. The area is hilly, and the community boasts a wide range of construction styles and property sizes.

  Simon Robles was driving down a street in one of the older parts of Westlake. The homes were a mix of ranch and colonial style, most of them sitting on half-acre lots. He parked in front of a corner house and got himself organized.

  Being a postal worker was in some ways monotonous, no question about it. Day in and day out, driving the same streets, pushing paper through the same mail slots. If you didn’t approach it with the right frame of mind, you could end up like a Bartleby.

  There were a lot of upsides, too. First, you were a federal civil servant. In other words, even Trump couldn’t fire you. Also, parking for lunch was never a problem—you could put your mail truck anywhere and no one would bother you. The walking kept you in great shape. And, if you landed a good route, the scenery was beautiful.

  Westlake was one of those routes. Some of the younger carriers would also have appreciated the human scenery in the area—the soccer moms going to and from yoga or spin class in their spandex “whatevers” were something to see.

  Simon was a bit old for that stuff. Not too old for sex, but most of the moms in the area were the same age as his daughters. They looked like little girls to him.

  He was always polite—greeting and smiling at people. And he liked most of the neighbors on the route. They were friendly and always pleased to see him. Some were even famous.

  For a while, Simon had delivered mail to Michael Dell’s house—the Dell Computer founder and billionaire. The actor, Dennis Quaid, was on his route for a time, and he’d actually handed Mr. Quaid his mail personally, once. Same for Lance Armstrong—as far as Simon was concerned, the poor guy got a bum rap on all that doping stuff. Then there was Dan Rather. Simon actually had a selfie he’d taken with Dan Rather—a real nice guy.

  There were also lots of local celebrities. The “Attorney that Rocks,” the mayor of Westlake, and State Senator Joe Harlan Sr. He was one of many politicians that lived in the area.

  Of all of them, Harlan was the one who most stood out to Simon. Not because of his political position, but because of his son—the one who had been on trial for that rape. The postman had spotted him on several occasions. Seemed normal enough. Guilty, not guilty. Who knew?

  Simon whistled as he approached the Harlan house and arranged their mail in a bundle—electric bill, Valu-Pak junk mailer, a couple of postcards from Realtors, and other correspondence that meant nothing to him.

  The house was nice, one of Simon’s favorites. It was an imposing white colonial. Well-maintained with a neatly manicured lawn and an American flag hanging from a thin pole attached to one of the porch columns. It looked like a politician’s house, with knock out roses planted along the drive. Beautiful when they were in bloom.

  Simon was so busy looking at the pretty flowers that he almost tripped on the single step up onto the porch.

  He pushed the mail through the slot in the door. When he straightened, though, he caught sight of something hanging on the front door at about eye level. It looked like some kind of decoration. He stepped closer, tilting his head up so that his bifocal glasses could focus better on what he was seeing.

  When he realized what he was looking at, he stepped back in shock and lost his balance as he went off the single porch step, staggering and tripping onto his backside, undelivered mail spilling out of his bag onto the grass. As he sat on the ground, eyes still glued to the thing on the front door, he reached for his mobile phone and dialed 911.

  Given the notoriety of the homeowner, dispatch sent out multiple police vehicles. And the news media, forever scanning police radio traffic, picked up on the call almost instantly. They arrived on scene minutes after the patrol cars.

  By the time Travers arrived, forensics was already there, doing their thing. He checked in with the crime scene investigator in charge, Natalie Bates. Sharp girl. Cute in that librarian kind of way.

  “A postal worker made the discovery. Around 10:15. Called 911. We’ve secured the area. Lab techs are working it. There’s no one home.”

  “Anything?” Travers asked, referring to clues, evidence, and so forth.

  “Not really. Pretty clean site.”

  “You guys contacted Harlan yet?”

  “No. We wanted to get a better sense for what we were looking at first.”

  “Mind if I talk with the lab techs?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Travers spoke to the head lab tech on site and got a rundown of what they knew so far, which wasn’t much. Tests would need to be run before they could confirm anything.

  Travers circled back to Natalie. “Who’s making the call?”

  “I don’t know. But,” Natalie indicated the media trucks with her head, “someone better, before he finds out on TV.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Thursday had been a long day, and Roy was just wrapping up work and getting ready to head home.

  It had been quiet. No news was very good news.

  Every day that went by without hearing about Harlan increased the likelihood that the murder, if it were ever ruled as such, would go unsolved.

  Roy was just walking out of his office when he saw David
emerge into the hallway, looking flustered. “Roy, come here! Quick!”

  When Roy walked into David’s office, he was back at his desk, peering at his computer screen.

  “What’s up?”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” David said. “Check this out.”

  Roy patiently crossed the room and looked over his colleague’s shoulder as he clicked to play the video on his screen.

  It was a news segment. A young blonde woman in a grey pantsuit and white blouse was standing in front of a large white house. At the foot of the screen, the caption read:

  Thursday, May 10, 2018, Austin, TX

  The blonde spoke.

  At approximately 10:30 this morning, a mail carrier called 9-1-1 after making a grisly discovery right here at State Senator Joe Harlan Sr.’s residence. The discovery was a male sex organ, and it was nailed to the front door. Police arrived on the scene shortly after and removed the organ, which is being subjected to DNA testing.

  The Harlans made the headlines several years ago when the senator’s son and namesake, Joe Harlan Jr., was charged and then acquitted of sexual assault.

  Shortly after, Harlan Jr. was attacked at a local Whole Foods by real estate investor Tom Wise, the father of the young woman involved in the alleged assault.

  Today’s discovery is just another twist in an already convoluted tale.

  Senator Harlan was not available for comment, though a spokesperson indicated that he is naturally shaken and disturbed by the incident and is cooperating with authorities.

  The camera cut to the on-set news anchor, who asked,

  Beth, I guess that, at this stage, there is no indication who would do something like this or why?

  At this point, Bob, we have been unable to get a clear answer to that question. The police tell us that DNA testing is underway and results will be available shortly. That will at least reveal the origin of the... discovery. However, both the police and senator’s representatives are not giving away much else at this time. Although, it is worth noting, Bob, that when asked about the whereabouts of Joe Harlan Jr., both the police and the senator’s office refused to comment—which, of course, only fuels mounting speculation that the, um, appendage may well belong to someone close to the senator.

  The video ended.

  “Fucking crazy, right?” David asked.

  But Roy could only stare in slack-mouthed shock. If it was in fact Harlan’s dick, how the fuck had it gotten there? And if it wasn’t, who the hell did it belong to?

  Of course, it could mean nothing at all—have nothing to do with the kid. The man was a senator for Christ’s sake. He must have enemies. But the sinking feeling in Roy’s stomach told him that this was all related, very related.

  “Hey, you alright?” David asked. “You look white as a sheet.”

  “Yeah. No. I ’m fine. I mean, it’s just that... that’s fucking nuts. Shocking. I mean, poor kid.”

  “Right? You think that’s his dick? Right? If it is, he didn’t stick around Miami long. That is way fucked up, man!”

  “Yeah. He must have gotten back somehow,” Roy uttered, absentmindedly. Then, snapping out of it, he added, “Anyway, thanks for that, I’ve, um, I’ve got to go.”

  Roy made for the exit without looking back.

  David looked after him. “Sure, man, any time.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  “Go for Eddie.”

  “Eddie, it’s Art Travers.”

  “I know that, Tex—caller ID. You still living in the twentieth century? What’s up?”

  If Art was tiring of the Miami detective’s sense of humor, he didn’t show it. Instead, “We’ve got a homicide,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure. We’ll get a confirmation in a few days. They put a rush on forensics testing. DA’s a friend of the senator.”

  “I don’t get it. Confirmation of what?”

  “It’s on the news here already. Don’t know if it’ll bubble up in Miami or if it already has. This morning, a postman found a dick nailed to the senator’s front door.”

  “A dick—as in a pee-pee dick?” Eddie asked. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. Not pretty. I’m sending you a photo.”

  “Geez, man. Thanks. That puts a new wrinkle on things.” Eddie laughed.

  “You’re fucking sick, Eddie.” Travers laughed a bit too, though. Gallows humor.

  “It’s a real pisser,” Eddie added.

  “Eddie, stop.”

  “Okay. Sorry. So, it’s a homicide. Our guys are working on the security camera footage. You got anything on the Uber and the shopping at Saks?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ve got some folks working that as well as chasing down alibis. I’ve been out of the office all day dealing with this latest development. The senator was not happy, needless to say.”

  “Who made the call? Was it you?”

  “Yeah,” Travers responded, grimly. He didn’t have much time for the senator, but nobody deserved that.

  “Was it hard?” Eddie scoffed.

  “Dude, stop it.”

  “Sorry, that just popped up out of nowhere.”

  “Seriously, Eddie. Come on…” And before the man could say anything else, he added, “So, listen. We should have the DNA results early next week. How about I call you then? You know. Compare notes. That’ll also give us some time to chase down these other leads, double-check alibis, et cetera. The senator said he wants to help in any way, which means we should be able to get the kid’s phone records.

  “I had one of my guys do a write-up on everything we know about Junior. I’ll email it to you. Read the summary, think on it all, sleep on it. Then we can try and make some sense of this. Also sending you the photo. You gotta see it. Puts this thing in a new perspective. We’re not disclosing this to the press yet, but there’s writing on it.”

  “Damn. Okay. I’ll have a look,” Eddie confirmed. “Hey, listen. It occurs to me... if you don’t mind, I’m gonna share your info with a psych profiler we have down here. He’s good. Does a lot of work with this kind of stuff. Specifically with sexual mutilations and so forth. I think we could use some support there. At least get a perspective on a type.”

  By type, Eddie meant the type of killer that would be inclined to this sort of mutilation.

  “That sounds great, Eddie.”

  “So, what are you thinking, Art? The kid made it back to Austin and got whacked there? No pun intended. Or he got knocked off here and someone FedExed his dick back to Texas? Or maybe even drove back with it?”

  “I dunno. It may not even be his, but I’m expecting forensics to shed some light on that. ”

  “If they don’t cock up the test.”

  Travers sighed. “Later, Eddie. I’ll call you when I’ve got more. Okay?”

  “You got it, Art,” Eddie laughed then disconnected the call.

  * * *

  Eddie hung up with Travers and dialed Emile Van der Put. Eddie had worked with the doctor on a few occasions. He was skilled at tying crime scene clues to criminal motivation.

  Van der Put had published an in-depth case analysis of serial killer Danny Rolling, who in 1990 killed five college students in Gainesville, Florida. Also called the “Gainesville Ripper,” Rolling killed his victims by stabbing. He’d then mutilated their bodies, dismembering them in parts—even decapitating one—and posed them in a disturbing tableau.

  Van der Put’s analysis of mutilation and motivation was widely studied in the criminal forensics world and had earned him the nickname “Dr. Van der Parts.”

  Eddie got right to the point. He provided the doctor with a summary of the key elements of the case. He provided no suspect names or information since the doctor insisted on not being provided information that might in any way affect how he processed facts. If he was given information about po
ssible suspects, this could force preconceived notions into his analysis. And he didn’t like that. Instead, he insisted on letting the facts define the profile and was meticulous about avoiding any information that might, even unconsciously, allow him to shape the profile to fit a suspect.

  Eddie concluded, “When the case went from a simple disappearance to a likely homicide and dismemberment, I thought of you. If you could help us work up a psych profile for the kind of sicko that would do something like this, that would be great.”

  “Absolutely, Eddie. This is certainly a curious case. The severed penis raises a number of interesting psychological questions. Normally, I’d be thinking some sort of paraphilic disorder consistent with a lust murder, but there are other factors at play here. There appears to be some premeditation involved, which isn’t necessarily inconsistent with lust murderers. And yet, in the context of what you’ve told me about the young lady he possibly assaulted, perhaps this is simply a case of revenge. That could be the simplest and most likely direction. But that doesn’t mean that typical paraphilic considerations wouldn’t apply.

  “Very interesting, indeed. I do believe I can be of assistance. The young man in question was from Austin, Texas, you say?”

  “Yeah, Doc.”

  “You need a quick turnaround, I assume? I can work on it this weekend if that’s the case.”

  “That would be great, Doc.”

  “Okay, Eddie. Feel free to email me whatever information you have and I will get right on it. But, remember, just facts. Nothing about suspects.”

  “Will do, Doc. Thanks.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  As Roy drove home, he ran through scenarios. If the penis belonged to Harlan, there was only one explanation. Susie had removed it. But how?

  After they’d killed him, Roy had gone to the aft for the Quikcrete and left her to wrap the body in the anchor chain. Roy remembered that she’d snapped at him when he offered to help her. When he’d returned, she’d finished, but he recalled that the body had been sideways in the duffle bag.