by Tiana Laveen
Jayme shook her head. She removed her outfit and slid on her jeans and sweater before grabbing her coat off the hook. The bouncer did his customary escorting, walking her to her parked rental car in front of the club. The familiar red and blue lights flashed a short distance up ahead. She shook her head, and proceeded forward. After driving home, she took a hot shower and got in bed, trying desperately to push the image of the man manhandling her out of her mind...
Damn you, Carter.You were never shit when we were kids, and you still aren’t...
****
“That’s the least of your worries,” Agent Peterson stated as he walked around Captain Jasper. The office pilfered with anxious officers that had been working the XXX case.
“We’ve got five dead guys behind the shut-down textile factory on Kennedy. No one saw a damn thing. That’s it; now here is what is going to happen.” The FBI agent leaned in closely toward Jasper, his hazy gray eyes shrouded in wispy blond eyelashes. “We need one of your cops, a local, and not any of these guys, either!” He shot the group a disgusted glance. “We want to interview him, someone used to working undercover, someone good for a change. Maybe you can handle that this time. I wish we didn’t need anyone from your department at all, but it would be foolish to go it alone without an inside track, at this point. The worse part of this is there were three cops on that block at the time of the...shootings, knifings, whatever the hell it was! Goddamn it...useless! ...The whole group of you!” He turned away angrily, gritting his teeth.
“Look, we tried! Even you have to admit, this is highly unusual. Bullets were spent, but there were no bullet holes. The fuckers were cut in half, like with a Samurai knife! The patrons inside had just seen them like thirty minutes ahead of that time. How could it be done so fast? It has to be more than one person doing this. The city is now in a state of panic. Even the so-called fans of the XXX killer are starting to worry. You should read the message boards. The shit is grizzly,” one cop said, his eyes still reddened from his best friend’s recent demise at the hands of the XXX murderer. He had been simply in the way, and become a casualty of the war.
“And he’s fast and on top of that, the damn tapes are clean,” another added.
“Yes,” Agent Peterson hissed. “That’s the first thing we tried to obtain, figuring you and your baffled crew here would grab it, only to find out the neighborhood watch tapes and the ones at the club, where the victims were last seen alive, were nothing but snow.”
“Static? How is that possible?” another officer asked.
“How the hell should I know? This is your damn department, you tell me! And it was only the timeframe of the murders. The tapes show no record of the guys entering or leaving the club but everything before and after that is clear as day. We’re having our forensic team check it for tampering. The owner denies any wrong doing. Needless to say, business has plummeted for Club Ecstasy, and word on the street that Carter and his boys have been killed has caused all sorts of in-fighting.”
Captain Jasper ran his hands over his face as his body burned with anger and disbelief. The media, including national news stations, had grabbed the story and swung it around like a rag, hitting all households with the ghastly details and causing a state of pure panic. Whoever did it had toured the nation and was now in the capitol of the country, working his deadly magic, dripping in blood but leaving no trail.
“If this guy’s mission was to make a point, he is now loud and clear. Before,” Jasper shrugged, “we’d just find the guys dead—no cause. Like their hearts stopped, ya know? In Miami, there were some murders like this, but never back to back …mostly clean, no split faces, missing limbs, none of that, but each state he goes to, it gets worse and worse.”
“Maybe he is getting braver,” one of the cops said.
“Or maybe he is trying to prove a point,” Jasper chimed in. “He has been to all the major cities, the ones with the highest drug trafficking. That’s a no-brainer. We are the last stop on the hit list. After this, then what? Does he start all over again? Miami’s drug related deaths have plummeted...again, catch-22. Los Angeles, same thing... New Orleans, you’d be hard pressed to find a dealer out in the open right about now...and New York?!” He turned away and shook his head. “He put that entire state on lock! The prisons are filled with addicts, more so now than ever. That is where the slaughtering reached a new level like no one had ever seen. He beheaded six dealers, mowed down five NYPD cops and three possible witnesses—all in a day’s work—and still, all anyone fucking knows is that he’s a tall Hispanic guy! Like that helps! We were hoping it was a copy-cat killer, but it’s not...”
“Of course it isn’t, the branding is unique—it’s from heated titanium, leaving a ribbed searing. The coroners have no idea what type of item is being used to create it. It’s clean, and untraceable,” another officer added.
“People didn’t give a shit at first, and hell, it helped us keep the streets cleaner with them out of the way but now, it’s so violent, that yeah, a lot of the drug dealers are more low-key but the people are going berserk. The damn drug rehab centers though are exploding with people, not court mandated, either. It’s like hell has frozen over,” Jasper added.
“Yeah, their damn dealers have disappeared and the people hooked, no dealer—they are forced to go through withdraw. I’m sure this is a dream come true for some.” Peterson rolled his eyes and looked away.
“All this time, we’ve been trying to stop the illegal drug trade...well…” He laughed, a cheerless laugh. “It’s slowed down a hell of a lot, now hasn’t it?!” Jasper pounded the desk.
Peterson looked around the room. “Give us one of your men. You have until tomorrow night. We need to brief him and explain what needs to be done. He won’t be allowed to discuss the details with you or anyone else from that point forward. I thought I made myself clear before, but just in case there is any misunderstanding, your department is officially off of this case!” The agent brushed roughly past several cops, slamming the door behind him.
The men looked at one another. No one dared to say a word. A few moments later, Detective Max entered. He rocked on his heels.
“I see Agent Peterson made his usual warm impression. Now,” he shoved one hand into his pocket, “Jasper, let’s do what he asks. At this point, it is out of control and we should be thanking our lucky stars that he wants anyone from the department at all. Do you have anyone in mind?”
“No. And that’s the honest truth. If I select the wrong person, we’re doomed. Our reputations are on the line. Let me think about this.”
“Well, you don’t have long. We’re talking less than a couple days here.” The detective waved goodbye to everyone, and headed out the door, leaving the Captain and his staff in disbelief and a state of forlornness.
CHAPTER TWO
Jayme leaned into the half-way open door. The splintered dark wood pressed into her face as she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Officer Lessing nodded at her, his dark brown brows bunched as he gave her the ‘go ahead’ from across the chilled, narrow apartment hall. Her heart thumped under her ribs as she entered the residence, her muscles slightly tensing and her eyes darting back and forth in the patchouli incense haze. Rounding one corner, she noted the food cooking on the stove, an egg burning, completely blackened. She quickly shoved the pan off of the red hot eye and turned off the stove before making her way further inside.
“Police!” She waited a moment, giving the perp a chance to respond.
Silence.
“Dwayne and Unique! We know you’re in here!” She kept her arms up, hands gripping her 9 mm semi-automatic. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Officer Lessing was making his way further inside, in the opposite direction. As she approached two small closed bedroom doors, she heard a loud commotion. Behind her, Officer Lessing was nowhere in sight. Hightailing it, Jayme ran, her legs burning and thigh muscles pulling. She tightened the grip on her pulled gun. Stopping abruptly at the bathroom, she spotted
Officer Lessing in a struggle with a tall, muscular man, long, glossy braids trailing his back and a tattoo of Jesus’ hands on his shoulder—Dwayne Stanton, a well-known low-life pimp.
“Dwayne!” She called out as she jumped into the two-man fight, instantly making it a threesome. Officer Lessing screamed out as the gun went off. Without a moment to spare, Jayme grabbed the gun and began to wrestle with Dwayne. She heard Lessing gasping for air as she pushed Dwayne over the tub. His back bent awkwardly, he hissed in pain and she continued to push her weight upon him.
“Shooting a cop! You’re done!”
Dwayne’s hands trembled and the gun clanked loudly as it fell into the tub. She quickly grasped it, drew her own again and pointed it directly at him as she spoke into her radio pinned on her shoulder. “We’ve got an officer down at 786 Redding, Apartment 4C. I need back up!”
Keeping the gun steady on Dwyane, she dropped to one knee, shooting Lessing a quick glance.
“You’re going to be okay.” She touched his chest—just a graze, but he still needed medical attention.
She roughly snatched up the man from the dirty cask, now running on pure adrenaline as she walked him into the living room. In a blink, she had him handcuffed and tied to a rickety, uneven dining room chair—by the table covered in weed wrapping papers, a couple lighters and empty beer cans.
Then, she searched the rest of the apartment, but didn’t find Unique or any of the other prostitutes he kept around. She knew the deal—they’d gotten there a moment too late, and they were hauled down the fire escape while Dwayne ran around, trying to quickly flush the evidence of his sloppy, low grade drug sales down the toilet. Soon, the other officers and the paramedics arrived. Despite the brutally cold weather and bone chilling wind that blew around the city, Jayme felt hot, balmy, and sweaty. She gripped Lessing’s hand as he was marched past on the gurney. He looked at her, winked and smiled before looking away back at the paramedics. The hazy red lights glowed, and the sirens grew quieter as he was driven away, and Dwayne was given a police escort down to the station. The man had the nerve to complain that Officer Knight had practiced police brutality on him, that his back was ‘fucked up’ from her bending him over the tub, and that he was sure something had snapped. She laughed as she recalled his desperate pleas and slid into her car, waving to the occasional police officer that passed by.
“We’ll need to see you back at the precinct for your report,” Sargent Stockley announced after he tapped on her window. She rolled it down, smiling at the pale-faced, long-nosed man with a heart of gold. The man believed in her when everyone else gave her hell.
“Of course.” She nodded.
He reached in and gently tapped her shoulder with two fingers. “Well done, Knight.” He then walked away, disappearing into the frenzy of yelling people, demanding answers on the other side of the freshly stretched yellow tape swinging to and fro in the harsh wind...
****
Xzion watched as hoards of people raced about on the wet, busy downtown D.C. street. The chilly Saturday afternoon proved to be blustery and uncomfortable for most, but Xzion relished the cold drops that fell from the sky, dotting his skin, moistening his hair, absorbing into his thin T-shirt and darkening his jeans with each step. He casually opened the restaurant door of the German cuisine establishment, Café Mozart, and immediately made his way toward a table. This was a familiar routine. He enjoyed people watching. He found human beings to be amusing, and he treated their daily routines and nuisances like buffoonish entertainment.
Placing his newspaper down onto the table, he slid into a booth and took a few deep breaths. Several times throughout the days, his thoughts were haunted with images of the red-headed cop from the strip club. He’d tried to push her out of his mind, but he always returned to her beautiful body moving under the strobe lights and seductive music. In that brief moment of seeing her, he hated that his thoughts had wondered. Initially, he chalked it up to it having been a while since he’d last had sex. His assignment in the United States had been going on for over a year, and he’d shared a hotel room with one, every now and again, when it simply became too much. He’d seen his share of attractive human women, but this one...
Damn her.
So sexy—and he was particularly turned on with how she pretended to struggle with Carter. He watched out the corner of his eye, the idiot’s heavy fisted grip across her arm. All the while, she could’ve slammed the man on the damn ground...
...but she didn’t want to blow her cover. Too bad I had to kill that motherfucker right under her nose...
But he’d taken additional pleasure in taking him out, seeing as how the man had spoken to her and manhandled her.
He thrust Officer Knight out of his mind again, and concentrated on other matters.
Today was moving day, and he was eager to get into his new home later that evening. He hadn’t complained to Aton, but he had been experiencing incapacitating soreness since the last hit and it took a two hour ice bath to get him anywhere near normalcy. He wasn’t certain what was causing his condition to worsen—possibly overexertion, but he was now more in need than ever to finish the job and get back home to start Phase II.
A waitress soon came by, handing him a menu and asking what he’d like to drink. She stood there staring down at him, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Xzion quickly glanced over the menu and handed it back to her. “Five glasses of ice and a bowl of chocolate ice cream.”
The waitress gave him a curious look and hesitated, at which he repeated the order.
He nodded pleasantly, watching as she shook her head before turning away to take another order. Xzion removed his laptop from the carrier case and placed it gingerly in front of him. Before he could log in, the waitress returned with a tray full of glasses of ice water.
“Hi, Sir, um, I forgot to tell you our special today. It is the Hungarian goulash. Um, are you expecting other people? Is that why you needed five cups of ice because I can bring out some more menus and...”
“No, it’s only for me. Please, just set the glasses down. Thank you.”
He watched out of his peripheral vision as she set them all before him.
“Your ice cream will be out in just a second.”
Xzion nodded, looking straight ahead at his computer as she sauntered away.
He picked up a glass of ice and chugged it. The grinding crunching sounds caught the attention of an elderly woman sitting close by. Her untamed salt and pepper brows bunched as she watched him work the crushed cubes over in a chomping frenzy. Christmas music played quietly in the background. He took to it, enjoying the chipper ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ tune, and began to chew in beat with the song, causing the woman to huff and turn away, her annoyance more than evident. Xzion smirked, pick up the next glass of ice and quickly consumed it, just like the first.
He turned back to his computer and typed in the name, Harold Menchee. Scanning the information as quickly as his eyes could capture it, he memorized the articles on the elite businessman who appeared in various pictures—shaking hands with the mayor, smiling in front row seats of the Washington Wizards basketball game, cutting the red ribbon at the opening of a new charter school he helped fund—and a multitude of video clips showing the upper echelon, self-made mogul and entrepreneur, discussing the keys to success. One thing the public didn’t know, however, was that Harold was a puppeteer. A slew of drug dealers bent to his every command and his product of choice was Dusty Roads, cocaine laced with PCP. He was a beloved staple of the community, a handsome 6’4 blonde haired, blue eyed bachelor from a prestigious family who’d completed law school but never passed the bar. Regardless, he went on to create and maintain a successful blog on thinking and growing rich via real estate. Menchee became the flipping property king of D.C., which rendered him an overnight sensation.
No one would have suspected Harold of being involved in such a thing as his two previous D.U.I.s, an accusation of public intoxication that had been
conveniently thrown out of court. His affiliation with a drug lord in France, a man that he touted as a ‘friend of the family’, went largely dismissed. Xzion, however, knew better. He’d accessed the man’s sealed files, discovering that his hunch had been more than correct. The coke line and money trail led right back to Mr. Menchee, who coincidentally, was receiving his product at cut rate prices, straight from Paris.
The waitress returned with the perfectly circular globes of chocolate chilled paradise, interrupting his train of thought, and placed them on his table. Xzion nodded in acknowledgement. He immediately picked up his spoon, dug into the frozen treat and resumed his research...
Due to Menchee’s leanings toward paranoia, Xzion knew this hit would be more challenging. It also didn’t help that anyone with eyes and ears now knew of the ‘XXX’ killer, so everyone, including Menchee, would more than likely be on full alert, despite his anonymity. Xzion’s string of heinous crimes had slowed the drug sales, drug related crimes and deaths in the city significantly, but not nearly close enough for him to be able to declare victory. He forged ahead, planning the final stages for the next human ‘cess pool’ removal. As he continued to review the glowing write ups on the man in question, a couple came in, hugged up, hand in hand, and laughing, lost in a world of their own.
Xzion had seen quite a bit of that in the city, especially a city such as D.C., which never seemed to have an ‘off’ button or delve into a moon-lit slumber. He didn’t understand it. Sure, there were relationships on his planet, and sex was for pleasure as well as procreation, but this was different. The hand holding, the gently caressing and fondling, the laughing and nose rubbing…he found it quite perplexing. The reasoning simply didn’t compute. The way he saw it—if you wanted to engage in sexual activity, you simply told your mate or the person of interest and it was done. There was no need to lean in close and speak in absurd ways, or to exchange pleasantries. The experience of love existed nowhere on his radar. It was a foreign concept that he had no interest in, neither on a personal nor professional level, though he understood the basic premise behind it—he saw it simply as one of many human weaknesses. For instance, his thoughts of the red-headed cop were lust born and bred, and that put him at ease during his minor periods of obsession over her. It had absolutely nothing to do with love. His body wanted her, not him...