by Paul Seiple
“What about that one?” Peter pointed to a blonde, who while awkwardly adjusting her skirt, rolled her ankle, thanks to six-inch heels.
“I don’t have a good feeling about that one,” Norman said. “She's wearing a wig and not well. Look closely, see the brown hair underneath? The way that she keeps adjusting herself tells me that she's not used to wearing this type of outfit. She's new or she's a cop. She isn't the one.”
A tall, redhead appeared from around the corner. Wiping her lips, she put a wad of cash in her purple velvet purse, and slipped a piece of gum into her mouth.
“She’s the one,” Norman said. “‘And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour.’ Babylon the great, dripping with the filth of fornication.” Norman smiled. “She’s the mother of harlots. The abominations of Earth.”
“The redhead?” Peter said.
Norman nodded.
“Redheads are bitches,” Peter reached for the door handle.
Norman grabbed his forearm. “Wait. She’s crucial to our plan. Are you sure you’re ready to approach her?”
“I got it. All I have to do is get her back to the car. Then you’ll take over with that Revelations stuff, right?”
Norman nodded again.
“She gets in cars for money. I have money. Don’t worry. I can’t mess this up.”
Norman had an uneasy feeling as Peter crossed the street toward the hookers. This was just as much of a test for Peter as it was for the whore. If he didn’t screw things up, then Norman could give him more responsibility. If he did — well there was that whole dispensable thing. And the whore, once she knew the plan, if she didn’t go along with it, she was disposable as well.
The redhead walked toward Peter. He ignored her and started talking to the blonde.
“What are you doing?” Norman said, knowing that, no matter the outcome, Peter had become disposable. He was a liability. The last liability was Norman's son, George. He swore after George’s death, no more, even if it delayed progress.
“What’cha looking to get into?” the blonde asked, grabbing at her left ear.
Strange, Peter thought. Probably a nervous tic caused by drugs.
“Will you shut up,” the blonde said.
“Huh?” Peter asked.
The woman laughed. “Not you, hun. Just these voices in my head.”
She’s crazy enough to think she’s the whore of Babylon, Peter thought.
“What’cha into?”
“I was thinking maybe just a blowjob,” Peter said, reaching into his pocket, he grabbed a balled up stash of twenty dollar bills.
“Now, you’re talking my game,” the blonde said. “A suck-and-go is twenty-five.”
“Suck-and-go?”
“You know, blowjob.”
“Oh. Yeah. Great.” Pete handed the blonde the money. He looked over his shoulder and pointed. “My car’s over the…” The blue Cadillac was gone. He felt something cold and hard slap against his wrist.
“You’re under arrest for solicitation,” the blonde said, pulling the earpiece from her ear. “Got em,” she yelled into it.
From the earpiece came a male voice. “Jesus Christ, that vibrated to my wang. I didn’t hate it. Do it again.”
Seven
Knoxville, Tennessee
Mack Root was waiting for Reid when he stepped off the plane. He thought the worst gauging Reid’s disheveled look and bloodshot eyes — Reid's been drinking again. Mack and Reid went way back, friends for seventeen years. They met on the Memphis Mauler case in 1970 when Mack was fresh out of medical school. Armed with vast knowledge of fly larvae, Mack helped Reid put away Lee Earl Roberts by shooting holes in the Roberts' defense that he was in jail at the time of one of the murders. Mack always said, “Bugs can't talk, so they sure as hell never lie.” He spent many a night drinking with Reid, not knowing that he was contributing to the disease. Reid was a master of hiding things. But he couldn’t hide the look that screamed all-night binge.
“Damn, Reid, you look like hell.”
“Well, I guess I should be happy that I look better than I feel.”
“I didn’t want to call you with this.” Mack grabbed Reid’s bag from his hand. “But I know you think Norman Wallace killed your mother. And to find her ID card with the body.”
“I’m glad you called.”
Reid despised secrets, yet he carried many with him. The day he found his mother’s grave, he made Michael swear to kept it a secret. It wasn’t hard — Michael wanted to forget everything associated with his biological family. Reid didn’t care about being right. He didn’t care about being vindicated for his claim that Wallace kidnapped and murdered his mother. Reid kept his mother out of the news for one reason — to let Wallace know he was the one that found the bodies. Another move in the cat and mouse game.
Mack dropped Reid’s bags into the trunk of his burgundy Ford Taurus. He stopped to examine Reid’s appearance again. Uncombed gray hair that resembled the last stages of a bird’s nest after the babies flew the coop. A wrinkled suit that looked like it lost a wrestling match with a restless night. This wasn’t the Reid that Mack knew. More alarming — there was no smell of alcohol. The look couldn’t be blamed on falling off the wagon.
“Everything OK with Barbara?” Mack asked.
“She’s fine. She loves being out of the Bureau and having her own practice.”
“Everything OK with you?”
“Can we just go see the body?”
“I figured this was some crazed fan of your work, so I’ve asked Chief Marker to put a moratorium on the press until you get to see her,” Mack said, opening the door to the autopsy room. He hit the light switch causing Reid to grab his head and brace against the wall. “Sorry, is it too bright?”
“It’s not that.” Reid saw his mother on the cold steel slab. The purple dress. The poodle hairstyle. The sick bastard had dressed this poor girl to look just like Victoria Hoffman on the day she disappeared.
“I’m still working on identification,” Mack said.
Reid didn’t answer. He stared at the girl, frantically rubbing his hand over his mouth as his eyes started to water.
“Do you know her, Reid?”
Again, Reid didn’t answer. He walked closer to the table. The girl still wore the apron stitched with the words Reidy Bug and a small lady bug to the side. Dinner’s ready, Reidy Bug, he heard his mother’s voice as she had called to him from the front porch many summer nights when he was a child.
“Reid?”
“My mother used to call me that.” Reid pointed to the apron.
“How the hell would anyone know that?”
“On the day she disappeared, she was in a hurry. She was baking an apple pie for church and needed flour. She left the house wearing her apron. This apron.”
“That’s impossible,” Mack said. “That would mean…”
“Norman Wallace did this.”
Reid told Mack everything he knew about Wallace. How he killed Wallace’s son, the serial killer who went by the name Murmur. He told Mack about the note Wallace gave him after Michael’s wedding. About finding his mother’s body buried on land that used to belong to Wallace.
“You haven’t heard from him since that day?” Mack asked.
“Not a word.”
“Why would he choose the Body Farm to leave a message for you?”
“He’s been watching me. He’s always been watching me. He knows that we are friends,” Reid said, the words burned his throat like acid. He had spent so much time trying to hide the little bit of information he had on Wallace and the whole time, Wallace probably knew. It was as if he had bugged Reid’s life. "He picked the Farm because he knew you would keep it out of the press. This is just for me."
“You’re confident that he killed this girl?”
“He didn’t kill her. His latest protégé did. Norman doesn’t murder any longer. He gets off on turning others into murderers now.” Reid put on rubber gloves, grabbed a pair of for
ceps, and lifted the apron away from the body. Touching the apron with the metal tongs sent a jolt from the past through Reid’s body like the electrical charge from sticking a butter knife in an outlet. It had been too many years since he heard the name Reidy Bug. So many years had passed that he couldn’t remember his mother’s voice. Waves of memories flooded his thoughts. He saw his mother sitting in her rocking chair, stitching the apron, and humming Glenn Miller songs. She loved Glenn Miller. Another tear trailed down the side of Reid’s nose. He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. “Where’s the ID card?”
Mack walked over to a stainless steel file cabinet and pulled out a plastic sandwich bag. “I kept this from the police. Wrong, I know. But I wasn’t completely sure this would stay out of the press until I talked to you. And I sure as hell didn’t want you finding out about it from the news.”
“Anyone else know about the ID?”
“A rookie. Tanner. Seems to be a good cop. I asked her to forget she saw it.”
“Get her down here,” Reid said.
“She won’t tell.”
“I trust you. If you say she won’t tell, she won’t. If you say she’s a good cop, she’s a good cop. I need a good cop to help me.” Reid pulled the collar of the purple dress away from the woman’s neck. Marks on her throat matched the color of the dress. “Asphyxiation?”
“It appears to be the cause of death. We won’t know for sure until the autopsy, but I haven’t noticed anything else out of the ordinary.”
“I want you to do the autopsy.”
“Chief Marker might want…”
“You let me talk to Marker.” Reid took off the gloves and tossed them in the trash. “Call the rookie cop. I need to meet with her before I leave.”
“You’re not staying in Knoxville?”
“I’ll be back. But I need to come clean on a few things first.”
Eight
Chicago, Illinois
Peter Miller rocked the wooden chair against the linoleum floor of the police station. To his left was a kid with a white towel around his head, which was turning pink from blood.
“Hey, I need a doctor,” the kid said.
“You should have thought about that before you decided to peep in that window,” the brunette officer said.
“Yeah, kid. You need to be more careful out there. At least wait until the husband isn’t home,” a male cop said.
The brunette hit the male cop in the arm with a clipboard. “You’re an officer of the law. Don’t encourage that kind of behavior."
“Hit me again. I’m a glutton for punishment.” The male cop walked away singing John Cougar’s ‘Hurt So Good’.
The comedic interlude briefly eased Peter’s fear, but the reprieve didn’t last. He wasn’t scared of jail. Hell, it was probably the safest place for him at the moment. He disobeyed Norman. Nothing good could come of that.
“Could you please stop rocking,” the kid with the towel on his head said. “You wouldn’t believe the fucking headache I’ve got.”
Peter rocked the chair faster, letting the kid know that he didn’t give a damn about his headache.
“Peter Miller,” a brooding cop with wide shoulders said, walking into the room.
Peter stopped rocking and looked up. The man’s shadow eclipsed Peter. He had to be at least six-feet-six inches. The cop's neck was non-existent. His biceps pressed against the fabric of his shirt like wild animals shaking their cages.
“Are you Peter Miller?”
Peter shook his head, first up and down, and then side to side, sending a mixed signal.
“Don’t play with me, asshole. Are you Peter Miller?”
“Yes, sir.”
The cop motioned for Peter to stand up. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’re being released." The cop removed the handcuffs from Peter's wrists.
“I wasn’t even booked.”
“Call it a technicality or a good day whichever you choose. I’ll walk you out.”
Peter followed the cop out of the precinct and down the steps and to the street.
“Norman’s not pleased with you.”
Peter turned to run back into the station. The cop grabbed his arm.
“Don’t kill me.”
“Don’t make a scene, kid. Norman just asked me to give you a ride back to the hotel. Now get in the car before you get us both in trouble.”
The first five minutes of the ride were met with dead silence. Peter didn’t know this part of Chicago. He didn’t know if this cop was taking him back to the hotel or to his final resting place. Having an association with Norman meant the cop didn’t follow an ethics code. Peter shifted in his seat. The ripping sound of his body moving against the vinyl broke the awkward silence.
“Why didn’t you follow orders?”
“Are you even a cop?”
“You answer my question first.”
“I thought the blonde would make a better whore.”
The cop laughed. “You realize you picked the only bitch on that corner that wasn’t a whore? And on top of that she isn’t even blonde.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter said.
“Sorry doesn’t change the fact that you fucked up. There is no room for fuck-ups in our line of work.”
“But…”
The cop placed his enormous index finger on Peter’s lips. “Shhh, I love this song.” He turned up the radio and Jermaine Stewart’s ‘We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off’ resonated throughout the car. The sight of the man who looked more like a brick wall than a human dancing to pop music normally would have sent Peter into hysterics, but he couldn’t help but feel that the end of his life was speeding straight for this brick wall.
“I’m Sanford,” the man said as the song faded out.
“Are you a cop?”
“I’m a junk collector,” Sanford turned off the highway into the parking lot of an abandoned gas station. “I dispose of the junk Norman collects.” He pulled the car behind the building. “Get out.”
“You’re letting me go?” Peter reached for the door handle.
Sanford smiled and unclipped his .38 from the holster. “You really don’t think we can let you live after the shit you pulled today, do you?”
Reasoning with the giant was out of the question. Given his size, Peter’s only option was to try and outrun Sanford. He opened the door, tripped, and fell on the jagged asphalt. The sharp pain of the flesh being ripped from his knee didn’t slow Peter down. He got to his feet and ran, never looking back.
Sanford shook his head as Eddie Murphy’s ‘Party All the Time’ came on the radio. “Shit, I love this song too. I wasn’t planning on doing cardio today, but what the hell.”
Peter had a good head start before Sanford stepped out of the car. He stretched, rapidly shaking his head from side-to-side until his neck popped. The snap sounded like a gunshot. Sanford grinned and started to run.
Peter refused to turn around. He ran faster, hoping to gain enough speed to just disappear. His ankles ached, creating the sensation that his feet could fall off at any moment. His calves tightened in a way that suggested giving up. It was futile. Peter couldn’t outrun death. That’s when he heard the footsteps and the humming. Sanford was just a few steps behind when he started singing the chorus to ‘Party All the Time’. Peter’s knees wobbled. He slowed to a crawl before tripping over despair when it hit him that Sanford wasn’t even out of breath. It was over. Peter turned to face the freak and dropped to his knees.
“Please, don’t kill me. I’ll disappear. I won’t say a word. I’ll forget any of this ever happened.”
“You understand what happens when you fuck up one of Norman’s plans, don’t you? Norman wants you dead. If I let you live that fucks up Norman’s plans. Do you think that’s good for my health?”
“I won’t fuck anything up. I just want out.”
Sanford placed the gun against Peter’s forehead. “You’ve already fucked up and now you�
��re getting your out.”
“Please, don’t.”
“Begging will not save you. Don’t worry it will be quick and painless. One shot between the eyes. You won’t feel a thing. I’m a compassionate man.” Sanford took the gun from Peter’s forehead and placed it against his neck. “I lied. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.” He pulled the trigger. Peter grabbed his throat, began to make gurgling sounds, and fell to the ground. Sanford turned to walk back to the car. “Your technicality is my good day.”
Nine
Charlotte, North Carolina
"Not there, Daddy. That's where Linus has to sit."
Afternoon tea with Michelle and her stuffed animals could be tricky. She had place settings for everyone. If anything was out of order, she would let me know about it. At first, I felt silly sitting at the small plastic table. After cramming into a kid-sized chair, my knees rested about five inches above the table. But for fifteen minutes, it gave me a chance to rest. Chasing a six-year-old around all day was exhausting.
"How about here?" I said, stuffing myself into a chair to the right of Michelle's teddy bear.
"Perfect." She poured invisible tea into a cup. "Be careful, Daddy, it's hot." Michelle giggled, and turned to pour some for Linus.
These were the moments Rebecca would regret missing. She was gone for months at a time on location. Being away so much meant missing the memories of Michelle’s early childhood. Memories that I knew Rebecca would treasure. Thanks to her books and acting career, we had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. We could retire to the country. Rebecca and Michelle could horseback ride and I could restore the 1942 Indian Scout that I picked up from a salvage yard a few months earlier. My plan was to be knee-deep in the restoration by this point, but Michelle’s tea parties always took precedence. When Rebecca returned from the show, I was going to try and convince her that a life in the country would be heaven. Would she listen? Not a chance in hell. Living in the country would drive Rebecca crazy. There was a great irony to that since she was raised on a farm. But that Rebecca was long gone. She was now Rebecca Aaron Callahan, movie star.