The Ripper of Blossom Valley

by S D Christopher

  "Oh?" I ain't giving them shit, not until they ask specific questions. I can see that Doyle's already pissed. Good.

  Farter continues, "Yes, three women, all single, all lived alone, little to no forensics evidence."

  "Was there any dismemberment?" Damnit, Troy, I know you wanna solve this thing, but follow my lead, will ya?

  This seems to have Farter a little shaken, but Bitch gets a bit of a rise. "There wasn't, but there were signs of an attempt in one of them. I don't know if you've ever seen an arm hanging by ligaments, but it's unpleasant." I've seen worse, actually, but she probably knows that. "We believed we had a serial killer on our hands, that he was escalating, but then he just...went away. Poof."

  Poof?

  Farter regains his composure. I bet he hurled when he saw the arm dangling "Then, when we saw the reports of the crimes you're investigating, we naturally made the connection to ours."

  "Naturally."

  Doyle's clearly fed up with my one-word answers, and is about to chime in, but Miss Pretty Pants cuts in. "I wonder, Lieutenant Foley, if you're in over your head, too." Low blow, lady. "You've been following dead ends for, three months, is it? And not any closer to identifying a suspect? We believe this is the same killer, and we mean to take over your investigation."

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa, you never said anything about stealing our case. You said you had questions for my men." Doyle looks surprised, which makes him look like even more of a dipshit than usual. Troy, on the other hand, looks worried, looking to me to take the lead, which I was gonna do when I was ready. Well, now I'm ready.

  "Let me get this straight. You have no dismemberment, and no actual evidence that this is the same guy, since you already said you have no forensics. 'Round these parts, we call that circumstantial. Was there any sexual assault in these cases?"

  Farter and Bitch look at each other, waiting to see who'll blink first.

  "No." Farter cracked first. I knew it. She's tougher than he is.

  "Anything of value missing from the scene?"

  "Other than cash, we can't say for sure." Nice try, lady. "But we don't think so, no." That's better.

  "What you're saying is you've got a hunch. And you know that doesn't give you jurisdiction. Now, if you ask nicely, we just might give you access to a witness we've got sitting down the hall. But if you interfere with our investigation in any way, or withhold anything that you learn from this woman, or anyone else you talk to, we'll have a nice chat with your superiors in Reno." From the looks on their faces, I can tell Doyle didn't mention the witness to them. I love stealing his thunder. "Now if you'll excuse us, we've got work to do."

  I'm fucking glad to be out of there, and chuckle to myself that they'll be dealing with Ms. Gutierrez next. Troy sidles up beside me, and I can tell without looking at him that he's downright giddy.

  "Nice job, Frank. Do you really think their case is unrelated?"

  "Nope. It might be the same guy, but I'll be damned if I'm giving up this job. Do me a favor: when they're done with antsy girl, see what you can find out about their cases. Be discreet, like I know you're good at. I'm gonna go see my girl for a bit, tell her the great news." I reach into my right back pocket, grab the folded letter, and wave it around nonchalantly, as my heart pounds in my chest.

  I can tell he's happy to be given some trust from me for a task this delicate, and I know he'll do a good job with it. Besides, I need to be alone for a bit with this damn letter.

  As the dickheads head over to Interview Five, and Troy walks to his desk, I look around and slowly unfold the letter. With my head a little more clear, I re-read the note, looking for some clue that might help lead me to its author.

  Lieutenant Foley. You should be ashamed that you've disgraced the force you've served so well for so many years. How many others have you taken advantage of before Melissa Templeton, Tracy Stemple, Denise Zimmerman, and Debbie Riley? Does seeing their names bring you any shame? I hope so. It ends soon. I know it was you. I can't prove it yet, but I will, in due time, and then you'll be brought to justice.

  I look up, glance around the office at everyone going about their day. I see the agents open the door to the interview room, and my gaze meets with Isabel Gutierrez. She quickly averts her eyes, and the door closes. I fold the note back up, stick it back in my pocket, and head out, to somewhere I can get rid of this damn thing, permanently.

  Chapter 9

  One Year Ago

  Bob

  Buzz! "Uh, The Bangles?"

  Unbelievable. Have these people never heard of Katrina and The Waves?

  Buzz! "The Go-Gos!"

  Honestly, why are you even here on Trivia Night, people?

  "Bob, you know this one. Buzz in."

  Buzz! "...Madonna?"

  Who even let you in? "Annie, you know I can't, it wouldn't even be fair. It'd be like when the Niners destroyed the Chargers in Super Bowl XXIX. I should save my precious thumb muscles for the finals."

  We order another pitcher of Guinness, and once again Chris impresses everyone with how he can guzzle a pint in one swallow. He challenges the table to keep pace, but all he gets is grumbles. No one bothers anymore after the Neil Incident. That was an expensive couch.

  Mercilessly, the emcee moves onto the next question. If these people thought "Walking on Sunshine" was hard, they must really be stumped by "Take On Me."

  Buzz! "Depeche Mode!" Pure comedy gold.

  Buzz! "New Order?" Maybe I should take Chris' Guinness challenge. At least that might make it a fair fight. Well...less unfair.

  Buzz! "A-Ha!" Snickers from the crowd, the frat boys who don't realize that she's right. Do I actually have a challenger?

  She gets the next one right, too, Young MC's "Bust a Move." I figure now's as good a time as any to start buzzing in, let her know who owns Trivia Night here at the Lobstah Shack.

  We trade answers for a bit, feeling each other out. She gets Baltimora, Corey Hart, and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I buzz in on Kajagoogoo, Yaz, and Toni Basil. We leave Huey Lewis, Joan Jett, and Wham! to lesser mortals.

  "Dude, she's cute." Rebecca, or Becks as she prefers to be called, always did have the same taste in women as I do. My challenger is a redhead, just the right number of freckles, not too thin, not too big, not too tall, not too short, not too much makeup. And a killer smile. It's like the trivia gods put her here on this night to reward my prior feats of recall.

  "Oh, is she? I hadn't noticed. Don't worry, it won't distract me."

  "Who's worried, Mr. 39 Steps?" Hitchcock reference. Nice. Bonus points for citing a movie featuring a character with a killer memory, like mois.

  "You guys are terrible."

  "Aw, Annie, don't be jealous. We'll always love you best." On any other night, Chris, you'd be one hundred percent right. Tonight, you're one hundred percent wrong.

  Don't let me be misunderstood. Annie's cute in that "short people are people, too" kinda way. And any of us would be happy to be with her. But she's off limits after Tom. They were like two peas in a pod, and now he's gone. It broke all our hearts when the cancer took him, but none more than Annie. Not only is she off limits, she's like our kid sister. Anyone who wants her digits has to go through us first.

  A few more questions, and we pause between rounds. It's me, the redhead, and some other guy who finished way behind us, but squeaked into third place. We face off in fifteen minutes in the Finals. The Finals, which I have never lost, and have never even been in jeopardy of losing. She doesn't stand a chance. It's a shame, really. If this were a tag team match, I'd chose her as my partner for sure.

  Annie backhands me in the arm. "Bob, she's totally sizing you up."

  "She has to take her time, on account of my width."

  Becks gets a little excited. "I think she's gonna come over here. She just whispered something to her friends and pointed this way."

  "Sorry, but I don't think she’s coming over here to chat you up."

  "Shut up, Chris." It’s too bad Pete and N
eil aren’t here tonight. Becks usually picks on them instead. She’s catty with her fellow LGBTQ compadres.

  Chris, sensing our table may grow by one, is of a singular mind. "We should order another pitcher!"

  We all groan, but he orders it anyway.

  "Hi, I'm Kate. And you are...?"

  Shit, she really is here to talk to me. I think that's, like, a first. I look around, ya know, just to make sure she's not talking to the awkward, giant, bulky bald guy hiding behind me. Nope, it's this awkward, giant, bulky bald guy she's talking at. All I see are eyes on me, and raised eyebrows. Becks, Annie, Chris, all silently begging me to say... something. Anything.

  I extend my hand. "Eric Stratton, Rush chairman. Damn glad to meet ya."

  "Animal House, nice one. I see I have my work cut out for me. Guess I've been going to all the wrong trivia nights lately." She motions to the empty chair at the table. "May I?"

  All I can manage is a vigorous head nod, a wave at the chair, and a grunt. I can quote practically any song, TV show, or movie that's been saved to tape, film, or a hard drive that still lives in this world, but I can't talk to a girl that I like with any original thoughts of my own. I'm like Wreck-Gar from The Transformers (Generation One, of course), and the fact that I know that means that I suck.

  I at least get the cotton out of my mouth long enough to introduce the gang. Chris is the drinker who never gets drunk, and he shows her his trick. Becks gives her a playful wave, which thankfully Kate doesn't notice, or is at least tactful enough to pretend not to. And little orphan Annie offers a smile of bare minimum proportions. Huh, maybe Kate has to go through her to get to me. Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.

  "So Kate, where did you go to high school?"

  Ah, great, the party trick. Why do I never see this coming? Thanks, Becks.

  "Oh, nowhere around here. I'm from Massachusetts originally."

  "Oh, a Masshole! Hahaha!" Note to self, start going to Trivia Night alone.

  "Chris, that's no way to greet our guest! Sorry, the reason I’m asking isn't because I think I know you. I just want Bob to show you his thing." Becks has such a way with words.

  "Uh...come again?"

  Becks leans in. "Okay, so check this out. When you first meet Bob, you tell him your name, and where you went to high school, and he'll never, ever forget it. Even if you only meet him once, for like a minute, and then you see him ten years later, he'll remember. It's uncanny!"

  Batting her eyes, Annie adds, "We nicknamed him The Vault."

  Kate looks at me, unsure what to say. I nod. "It's a gift...and a curse."

  She looks unsure, but... "Okay. Hi, Bob. My name is Kate, and I went to Plymouth South High School."

  I extend my hand, and we shake on it. "Hi Kate. I'm Bob, and because I learned that, I just forgot my mother's phone number."

  "Oh, that's ok. You never call her anyway." She's quick-witted, too. I think I'm in love. "But wait, how do I even know if this trick works? It's not like I'm gonna disappear for ten years and hunt you down just to find out if you remember where I went to high school."

  "Fair point. Observe. This is Chris. He went to North Allegheny Senior High School. That there is Annie. She went to Garfield High. And Becks here, she went to the School of Hard Knocks."

  "Funny." That joke is getting old for Becks, but it's new to Kate, so who cares?

  "No, Becks went to Randolph High."

  "Okay, so these are your friends, big deal."

  They always doubt me. "Fine. See that guy over there in the Sharks jersey? That's James, he went to Palo Alto High. That girl at the ATM, that's Christy, she went to Gunn. The guy with the Giants cap, he's Pat, and he went to Fremont High School in Sunnyvale. Don't ask me why Fremont High isn't in Fremont. That's not part of the game."

  She still eyes me suspiciously, as Becks and Chris high five. "Mmmmm, I dunno. You seem like a regular here, Norm. I need more."

  Ok, love the Cheers reference, but game on, lady. I call over the waitress. "Dana, you're an impartial observer. Pick out someone who only comes here once in a blue moon."

  My favorite employee eyes the joint, and points to a gentleman in a paisley suit. "I've only seen that guy in here like twice. Can't miss those awful suits."

  "Thanks, D." I motion for Kate to follow me, and she obliges. The rest of the gang holds down the fort, smug grins on their faces.

  I tap the suit on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sir. Do you remember me?"

  He looks me over, suspiciously. "Uh, no, I don't think so...should I?"

  "Your name is Phil, and you went to Lowell High School, am I right?"

  Phil's expression changes in a snap. "Yes! Oh, you're that guy! I met you a few months ago in some bar. Your friends said you do this thing with names and high schools. You remembered!"

  "Yeah, it was here, at this bar, sir. Thank you very much for helping me settle a bet."

  I quickly turn and head back to our table. Kate's mouth hangs open as Phil shouts back, "You're welcome!"

  As I sit down, Kate the Killer Redhead composes herself. "Ok, I stand corrected. Impressive. Most impressive. Do you have a photographic memory, too?"

  "Yup, since as long as I can remember. It's part of how I slay the competition at Trivia Night. A man's gotta have his free lobstah roll."

  She explains that she's got it too, and we compare notes, while Becks and Chris try to convince her she's no match for me, and should just bow out of the Finals. "Not a chance. Your friend here is going down."

  "Only if he's lucky."

  "Chris!" Annie always was a bit prudish. Becks coyly relays to Kate that we’re all single, and the snickers give way to awkward silence.

  Thankfully, the Trivia Night host gets on the mic and announces the start of the Finals in two minutes. Kate bids us farewell so that she can rejoin her friends. "Sorry that you'll have to pay for your lobstah roll tonight, Bob. Maybe I can make it up to you sometime."

  She smiles and walks away. Before I can even open my mouth, Becks chimes in. "And maybe I can help!" I bury my head in my hands and hope she didn't hear that. Chris assures me that she did.

  The Finals start off well enough, but I'm conflicted. Do I let her win? I can't. I'm kind of an asshole about Trivia Night. I try to hold back, but I can't help myself. Early on, I jump out to a modest lead, as the host digs deeper into the obscure, and to a wider variety of decades and genres. Kate counters pretty well, especially with the dance and disco questions, but she's certainly not limited to those.

  By the end of Round One, the music questions are exhausted, but Kate and I are not. Our third opponent, if you even want to call him that, gave up about halfway through, and barely even tries to buzz in anymore. It's me vs. the red-headed version of me. I gotta admit, she's way prettier.

  Round Two leads to the topic of movies, and as we match each other on questions about Kubrick, Spielberg, and Hitchcock, I notice that more and more people are actually paying attention. This is unusual, since it's generally not even close, and I'm basically the only one who really cares in the entire place. Some of the onlookers are regulars, I notice, like Ted from Lincoln High School, and Sara from Jefferson High. They seem intrigued that I may have finally met my match. But others are new to the Shack, maybe amused by the stiff competition between a cute, freckled redhead and a bald, lumpy giant with a guacamole stain on his shirt.

  "Come on, Bob, you've got this!" Words of encouragement from my friends, who have never needed to offer it before. "Take her down!"

  The deeper we get into these questions, the more I feel like I'm in the zone. It's as if being pushed this hard has actually unearthed hidden bonus levels of the vault, further than I've needed to dig before. I swear I can feel the neurons in my brain opening new pathways to gain quicker access to random facts buried deep and rarely, if ever, called upon. And oddly, I'm starting to unlock easter eggs in my own memory.

  This has happened twice before, both under stressful circumstances. Once, when I slipped and hit my hea
d while running around a pool. I started instantly and vividly recalling things I hadn't thought about in years. The other time was while I was fighting Jimmy Leary in the school playground in seventh grade. I suddenly had the ability not only to remember things I'd read, but also started to recall specific events in my life that I'd forgotten about. Not just the important, funny, or dramatic ones, but the benign and boring, too.

  And it's happening now. Suffice it to say that I generally live a stress-free life, hence a competitive game of trivia pushes me to the edge.

  Leading this sprint down memory lane are details of playing Grand Theft Auto three weeks ago. After a frustrating day of work at the TV station, I grabbed a sniper rifle, found a nice, high location with a great view of the city, and started picking people off. Head shots everywhere. In the game, mind you. I'd never do something like that in real life. That's what games like this are for, stress relief. I'm not a psycho.

  I start remembering more routine things, from further back, too. I had chicken fingers and fries for dinner on April 15, 2003, and I remember all the other times and dates that I had that same exact meal, along with other details about those days. I recall that I've eaten ribs at my favorite barbecue place 87 times since I moved out here from Pittsburgh three years ago. I remember letting Lisa Wicker cheat off me on a physics test on October 22, 1993. She was cute, too, and that's why I let her. I remember her bright blue eyes, her auburn hair, and her blue dress with the white flowers on it. Then I remember Derek Bonner shooting me a look because he thought it was unfair. He was always such a stickler for the rules, with his perfectly combed blond hair, his white collared shirt, and red pullover sweater. He thought I didn't see her copying off of me, and motioned for me to hide my answers. I gave him the finger.

  Annie’s voice seems distant, almost ethereal. "Dude...are you okay? She's pulling ahead."