Gavin English Thrillers

by Ken Lindsey

  "Oh. Dear, yes. That poor girl. I'm sure Mr. Rawlings will make room for you. What time did you want to come in Officer...?"

  "You can call me Gavin. Gavin English. Would it be alright if I swung by in about twenty minutes?"

  "That sounds fine. Mr. Rawlings will be off lunch by then."

  "Thank you."

  "They call me Lenore around here, dear."

  "Thank you, Lenore."

  After I hung up the phone, I scrounged in my closet to find something to wear. It's been my experience that if you walk around in something nice, and act like you're allowed to be anywhere you want, people don't question it. Over the last few years, I've purchased two Armani suits: one for special occasions, silky and cut just right to accentuate my chest and ass, and one for official business, flat, charcoal and straight cut as can be. It looked as good on me as the first one, but it was loose enough in the shoulders and chest that I could carry my piece without anyone knowing.

  After I laid out the suit on my bed, I slid my gun safe out of the closet and unlocked it. I don't like guns, never have, which always made people ask me why I became a cop. I don't see what the two have to do with each other. A soft dislike of firearms, however, did not stop me from seeing that it's essential to protect myself in my line of work. It would be awesome to walk around with a battle-axe strapped to your back, but how the hell will you get seated at a restaurant like that?

  A smooth, black Makarov 9x18 millimeter hung snug and cozy in my shoulder holster, though. No problem getting a table with that. I lifted the gun from its case and pulled and released the chamber to ensure that it wasn't loaded. It isn't like I go to the gun range daily, but I always go with safety first when dealing with something that can kill me. It was clear, and the magazine filled, so I locked the safety, loaded it, and clipped it into my holster.

  The top button on the jacket pulled a bit tighter than the last time I’d worn it so I made a mental note to get back to the gym. Once I suited up, I straightened out my hair, threw on a dab of smell-good, and rushed out of there. I had work to do, and not a lot of time to do it in.

  As soon as lunch time ends, traffic on the freeway is all asses and elbows. I was thinking about pulling my gun to make room for myself when my phone started to vibrate and sing in my breast pocket.

  "Yeah?"

  "Gavin, Jesus Christ I got a headache. You should've stuck around, man. We partied and drank and half the bar came home with me last night."

  Good time to get responsible, huh. "Good for you, Dave. You calling to rub my nose it?"

  "No, man. I wanted you to buy me a congratulatory lunch and bring that chick's number for me."

  "Yeah, sounds good. But I'm in the middle of something right now, is a late lunch okay with you?"

  "Sure, I'm the boss now remember?"

  "Hey, can I ask you a favor too?" I had to play this part carefully if I wanted any shot at seeing those files.

  "What's up?"

  "Do you think there's any chance I could see the stuff you got on the Beckham girl? Before your uniforms steal my fare?"

  "Uhh, I don't know, Gav..."

  "You don't have to leave them with me or anything, just let me get a look. Maybe take down a few notes?"

  "Alright, since you're helping me out. Sure."

  Couldn't have gone better if it I had been writing the script. Things were falling in line in a way that made me sure that the shit was about to hit the fan. Oh well. No reason to miss the party because you're afraid of a hangover.

  I arrived at the school after 1pm; the grounds were silent and I parked near the front entrance. I jumped out of the Jeep, straightened my suit, and headed for the front office. The room was clinical. Off-white walls, inspirational posters everywhere, and only one clock, right above the principal's office so that people didn't drive themselves crazy staring at it all day.

  "Can I help you?" came the same smoke scarred voice from the phone.

  "Lenore?"

  "Yes, are you the policeman I spoke with?"

  I gave my winningest smile, "Gavin English, that's me."

  Lenore leaned over a twenty-year-old push-button phone and hit the intercom button with an arthritic finger. "Mr. Rawlings, Officer English is here to see you."

  "Send him right in," came a man's voice through the speaker which made it sound like he was yelling down a hallway full of air conditioners.

  "Go ahead, dear," said Lenore. She pointed to the closed office door beneath the clock.

  "Thanks, Lenore."

  Rawlings' door was heavy, like he wanted to make sure people couldn't get in or out without him knowing. I guess high school principals never change; mine was a sadistic bastard too. He didn't get up to greet me, just waved me in and pointed to a short chair directly across the desk from him. Typical passive aggressive power play; I didn't like this guy.

  "Hello, Officer English. How can we help you?"

  I leaned against the chair rather than sitting down, "Please, call me Gavin. I'm here because I'd like to ask you a few questions about Denise Beckham."

  He shook his head and forced on a sad face. "It's a tragedy. Of course, we've all been keeping up with the news. I've seen that you boys in the department are taking a lick over the whole thing too, huh?"

  "Oh, you know the police department; can't even be sure who's working there half the time." We shared a laugh, both of us faking. "It's been a while, but I was wondering what you might be able to tell me about Denise."

  "She was somewhere in the middle, to be perfectly honest with you. Grades were average, ditched an average amount of school, and got into a little more than average trouble. Unfortunately, with as many kids as we have here, I can't have a close relationship with all of them."

  "Right. What about her friends, anything or anyone who you can think of that might be a help?"

  He shook his head again, making his extra chins jiggle beneath his short salt and pepper beard. "As far as I know, they were all quite alike. She hung around with that other girl, the one who ran away last week. And a few others who have been in and out of my office from time to time."

  I took out a pen and my official-looking notebook and scribbled a picture of a dick on it. He raised his eyes to sneak a peek. I flipped it closed. "About Denise, you say she got in more than the usual trouble. Tell me about that."

  "Nothing major, nothing involving the police or anything like that. She was a frequent flyer. She didn't like some faculty members, and had no problem mouthing off. She and a couple of the other girls were removed from one class for constant insubordination."

  I opened my notebook again, scribbled down the first line of the Pledge of Allegiance to make it look official, and closed it. "Could you tell me the names of the girls?"

  He flipped open a brown file folder that had been sitting on his desk. "It looks like Lucy Taylor and Jennifer Davis."

  No new names, but I definitely needed to get back in touch with Lucy. I flipped open my notebook again, "Which teacher did they have trouble with? The one who removed them from class?"

  "Looks like Mr. Williamson. English teacher." Probably another dead end, but at least I had an actual name to write down.

  "What about fighting, were there any students that she didn't get along with?"

  "They all fight. I can't even begin to keep track of that, unless there is a real altercation. With Denise, there are none in my files."

  Something made an awful buzzing noise that almost made me drop my very official notebook. It was the intercom.

  "Mr. Rawlings, there’s another policeman here to speak with you about Denise."

  Rawlings raised his eyebrow in my direction, "Expecting reinforcements?"

  For once, I had nothing to say. I gave a tiny nod, shoved my notebook back into my pocket, and said, "Thanks for your cooperation. I'll see who they sent." I slid out through the dungeon door and did my best to be inconspicuous as I made my way across the office. I saw David chatting with the old lady at the desk. He saw
me too.

  "I warmed him up for you, buddy," I said with a wink as I made my way out as fast as I could without running.

  I didn't even look back to see if he followed me. I would get an earful for this, but I didn't technically do anything wrong. I was following up a lead for a client, so I guessed he'd forgive me by the time we had lunch.

  "Hey!" Shit. I had my hand on the Jeep door and I played with the idea of feigning deafness. I knew it would never work. I turned with a smile which faltered for a moment when I realized the voice hadn’t come from David.

  I didn’t recognize him, but a tall, thin, balding man walked toward me, waving.

  "Yeah?" I asked in my casual, I need to book it the hell out of here, voice.

  "The office said that you were investigating Denise Beckham. I hoped you could tell me if you had found anything. We're all kind of waiting with bated breath to see what kind of a monster could do that to a young girl."

  "Oh. Sorry, no. I don't know much at this time. And you are?"

  He extended a perfectly manicured hand to me, "I'm Robert Williamson. Denise was a student of mine."

  I shook his hand. Something about him rubbed me the wrong way, but the guy was a high school teacher, and I’d always had a bit of an issue with authority. Still, it’s always best to be polite in situations like these, "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Williamson. Were you close with Denise?"

  "Oh very," he answered. "She was one of my favorite students, a joy to have in class."

  I'm not sure why people think they should lie to cops about the dumbest shit. Not that I was a cop, but he didn’t know that. I decided to see if I could poke a few holes and find something new. "I'm glad to hear that, maybe you can help me out. Since you were close to Denise, would you be willing to answer a few questions about her and a couple of her friends for me?"

  A flash of something dark crossed his face, gone before I had a chance to get a read on it. He smiled, "Of course. Anything to help out. I should get back for class right now, but if you have time tomorrow, I'm taking a vacation day to get some yard work done. You're more than welcome to swing by. I'll grill up something tasty and you can ask me all the questions you want."

  Was he hitting on me? Either way, he might have information I needed and I had come too far to back out now, "Sounds good." I handed him a page from my notebook and a pen. "If you'll give me your address, I'll be there around noon tomorrow."

  Chapter 10: Cuts and Slices

  He felt his heart pounding away in his chest, rhythmic and strong, beating a pulse to his brain to set off his fight or flight response. He loved it. There would be no fight or flight, not now. As he left the parking lot behind and made his way through hallway after hallway, he formed a plan. He felt really alive for the first time he could remember in years, but the adrenaline slipped away with each passing second. Returning him to normal.

  He didn't know Gavin English, but he knew he wasn’t a cop. Not a cop, but close enough to be trouble. As far as he could tell, no one had ever looked into his... extracurricular activities. He knew to always be careful, always patient. Patience was key. Looking back through a history of people with tastes like his made it clear: If you don't plan, or if you get rushed, give in to a momentary impulse, then you were likely to be caught.

  By the time he reached the classroom the students' voices, their laughing, shushing, and joking sounded like nothing more than a faded buzz at the edge of his attention. Without thinking, he scribbled page numbers on the chalk board and sat in the faded corduroy chair behind his desk. "Read the pages silently," he said. "Tomorrow's scheduled test will be postponed because I will not be in class."***

  "Do you know how much shit you'll be in if the school tells Captain Meadows that you were impersonating a cop?" asked David as he slid a greasy slice of pepperoni pizza onto his plate. My place was messy, but I hoped I might worm my way into a glimpse of the crime scene photos. Lunch in a public place seemed like a bad idea.

  "I never said I was a cop."

  David shook his head, "I'm second guessing my decision to let you see these files. Rodriguez would love to see me fall on my ass in my first week as L.T."

  "I'm serious, Dave. I called up, told them my name, told them I was investigating the Denise Beckham case. I can't be held responsible if they jumped to conclusions."

  "Goddammit," he replied.

  We ate in silence, each of us staring at the other's files, hoping that they might reveal answers we hadn't found yet.

  After my second slice, I gave in, "Listen, you haven't connected Denise and Jennifer yet, and neither have I. At this point, we're passing ideas back and forth. Like we've done a hundred times before." I slid Rachel's folder across the coffee table as a peace offering. "I'm sorry for stepping on your toes, but I promised Jennifer's mother I would do everything I could to point you in the right direction if the connection turns official. From here on out, I'll pass everything I do by you first."

  "Like hell you will," he snorted as he slid his files to me. "I hope you have copies of this shit, I'm keeping it," he said, indicating my folder.

  "No worries, boss."

  Halfway through my next slice I came to the first crime scene photo taken where they found Denise’s body. Appetite officially lost. When David told me the girl had been cut up, it had in no way prepared me for the cruelty in those pics. Denise had been stripped down to bone, in at least a hundred separate places. As the images progressed, I could see that the edges of each cut had been allowed to heal, probably bandaged and cleaned meticulously. Nine strips of flesh from her left leg, seven from her right, each arm had six cuts, and they all went to the bone.

  As I studied the shots of her torso, I had to fight to keep my pizza down. "Jesus fucking Christ."

  "I'm pretty sure that wasn't his middle name," David chuckled.

  "Very funny. What happened here?"

  "According to the lab guys, the ribs were stripped one at a time."

  "Jesus." The girl's left side was all angry and inflamed flesh, scabbed over and turning gangrenous. Aside from the burnt look of the skin at the edges of the wounds, the right side of her torso looked healthy and untouched. Last, and worst of all, the left side of her skull seemed to have been carved open like the top of a pumpkin.

  "This the cause of death?" I asked, holding up the last photo.

  "Seems that way. Coroner is still on it. All I know is that there are no signs of rape, and she had a heartbeat up to 24 hours before she got dropped off with the medical examiner."

  I put the photos back in the file and closed it. "Lunch was a bad idea."

  "You've been out of the game too long, watching old fat guys cheat on their wives isn't very messy," replied David as he picked up another slice with a smile.

  "Don't think so? That just means you've never seen fat old guys get naked."

  He made a face and put the pizza back in the box. "Thanks, buddy. Now, I'll never get that image out of my head."

  "Anytime, Lieutenant."

  David smiled and flipped me off, "One big question, though: Why did they stop? Whoever did this, why leave the other side of her chest? If it's a kind of ritual or experiment, I don't get it."

  A replay of the pictures ran through my mind. Clean cuts, lots of muscle, no belly cuts, nothing near the pelvis. This wasn't surgery. "The gangrene. That's why the cutting stopped."

  "What are you talking about?" he asked as he pulled the file back toward himself.

  "Think about it. Making so many cuts, keeping her alive. When the meat gets left out, eventually it starts to turn if you keep it fresh instead of frozen."

  "Oh my god." I could see the change in his expression as he caught on to my meaning. "You think she was taken by a cannibal?"

  "They killed her because they wanted the brain before the gangrene could reach the blood. Once that happened the infection would've spread quick. Blood, kidneys, heart, and then the brain. Can't eat the brain if it goes bad. That would be unhealthy."

 
Chapter 11: Blood and Strawberries

  "Honey, I'm home," he said as he entered the basement. His penny loafers padded softly against the concrete floor as he made his way to Jennifer's side. "Exciting day at work, the police were in and out all afternoon."

  Jennifer bit her lip to keep from crying. She had been asleep, dreaming about home, making breakfast with her mom and hanging out with Denise and Lucy. Now, she found herself back in a concrete-lined basement that smelled of dried blood and her own piss. "I'm so glad you're home, lover."

  "Me too." He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. "I think I may have made a new friend while the police were there."

  A glimmer of hope popped up and Jennifer swiftly quashed it before it could do any more damage. There had probably been a fight at school, or a kid showed up with a knife. She had no reason to believe that police at the high school had anything to do with her. "That sounds exciting. Lover."

  "Oh, it is. I invited him over for lunch tomorrow."

  It was almost too much for Jennifer to keep from hoping. There were cops at the school, possibly looking for her, and now they might have another person into the house. There really could be a chance for her in it all, and she didn't think she would be able to keep that thought down.

  At least, not until Mr. Williamson said, "Unfortunately, my sweet, this means that I have to break my promise. If I'm going to be entertaining, I’ll need something delicious on the menu."

  Despair, somehow worse than before, engulfed Jennifer. Worse, she knew, because she had given in and dared to hope that things might get better. Now her tears flowed unabashedly, and her body shook with the sobbing that came from deep in her chest. For the first time in her life, she truly wanted to die.

  "Don't worry!" he exclaimed, now donning his plastic apron and gloves. I'll be sure to make enough so that I can prepare you a plate before he arrives. No time for the needle, though. I need to get the marinade going."

  The first cut on her leg still hurt more than anything she had ever felt before being strapped down in the bastard's basement. Now she looked on in horror as he showed her the largest carving knife she had ever seen.