by Grant Pies
“Thursday. The 15th was a Thursday.”
“So, it was Dennis that called her. It’s got to be!” Sam slammed the book shut. The two men walked back towards the car.
“Hang on, we don’t know that. Could have been a student in the chess club.”
“You heard Mike. She didn’t have any other friends at school. Even Orcheck said so.”
“She only needed one friend that Mike didn’t know about,” Carter said.
“Yeah, fucking creepy Dennis!”
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
“This isn’t the time for devil’s advocate. We got Rose in the photography club with Dennis, and a picture of Dennis standing next to the payphone that called Rose’s secret cell phone. And the call came in on the same day that he would have been here.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right.”
“So, what now?” Sam asked. “You said we’d hand it off to the cops if we found anything.”
“I said I’d hand it off to the cops once we found who got Rose pregnant.”
“Okay … what do we do boss?”
“Stake him out. Watch his moves. See if there’s anything else going on.”
“Now you’re talking. Good ole surveillance.”
Before heading to Dennis Orcheck’s house, the two men went back to their office. Carter swiftly spun the dial of his safe and retrieved the .40 caliber pistol inside. He slammed a loaded magazine into the gun and stuffed it into his waistband, letting his coat drape over it.
Now, sitting in the car across the street from Orcheck’s house, the gun jammed into Carter’s back, the cold black metal pressed against his skin. It was thirty minutes to midnight. Dennis had come home around seven o’clock, and there had been little signs of life since. Sam sat in the driver’s seat flicking through radio stations, his revolver in plain view on the dash.
“We’ve gotta splurge for satellite radio if we’re going to do many more stake-outs,” Sam said.
“We? Isn’t this your car?”
“Well, it’s more like a company car, you know? That’s how I see it.”
“That’s not how I see it.” Reaching and turning the radio off, Carter said, “Just pay attention. You’re like a ten-year-old.”
“What would you know about ten-year-olds?”
“I imagine they’re a pain in the ass. That’s probably a safe bet.”
“You know, you aren’t so easy to work with either. Always second guessing me. Not wanting to listen. Plus, you’re stubborn as hell. I think you’ve been working on your own for too long. Almost two years with no one to answer to, to talk to … it’ll change a man. Even before that, with Leland. You may as well have been working with a ghost. He’s the only person who talked less than you. I think that’s why you two got along so well.”
Carter’s mind drifted to Leland Garrett. Sam was right. Leland despised talking to people. He never knew why Leland made an exception for him, why he took him on as an apprentice. It was the one question he didn’t get to ask before Leland died.
Deep down, if he really thought about it, Carter never asked because he was afraid of the answer, afraid the reason may be meaningless, afraid it may be nothing more than, “I just needed a partner to pick up the slack.”
Whatever his reasons were, Carter was grateful for Leland. He trained him to be a competent investigator, forcing Carter to study things that revealed traits about people. Clothes they wore. Guns they carried. Tattoos they had. Leland had albums of tattoos, likely taken from parlors across Chicago. Carter had memorized the tattoos of the Latin Kings, Black Disciples, Folk Nation, and every other gang in Chicago. Leland made him study military tattoos as well.
“Military’s a gang too,” he said. “Same ink, same clothes, same lingo. Don’t let anyone fool you, they’re a gang with the backing of the United States government.”
Carter stopped reminiscing and returned to the conversation. “Since when did being okay with solitude become some personality disorder?”
“Let me teach you something about yourself.”
“Oh, this is gonna be great.” Carter rolled his eyes.
“You don’t find me annoying. You find all people annoying. It’s just that I’m the only one close enough for you to take your anger out on.”
Carter shook his head and laughed. “You just tell yourself that to excuse your own annoying quirks.”
“You’ve got to admit, people in general piss you off. Not just me. Like that ball game we went to last summer. You just kept groaning on and on about how many people were there.”
“Well of course! Can you name one place, one,” Carter held up his index finger, “that is better with more people? You ever gone to a movie, and thought ‘Gee I wish there were more people around’? How about a restaurant? Traffic? Airplane? You ever been on a flight and the captain said the flight is full and you get excited?”
“Well no.”
“No, of course not. Parks. A shopping mall. Theme parks. Grocery store. Nothing is made better because there are more people there. What place is better with more people?”
Sam just nodded and kept quiet.
“I’ll do you one better,” Carter continued. “It’s not people like me who are strange, it’s the people who need constant interaction who are maladjusted. Those are the fucking weirdos.” Carter let out a short snort and shook his head.
“A family,” Sam said, almost to himself.
“What?”
“A family. You asked one thing that is better with more people. A family.”
“Not my family.”
“Well once you’ve had it, had a wife, had a daughter, it sure sucks coming home to an empty house.”
“Then maybe it’s best not to have one. Best not to know what you’re missing out on.” Carter settled down into his seat.
The two remained silent as they watched Dennis Orcheck’s house. It was sprinkling, the drops forming a mist that blew into view under the streetlights. Sam spun the dial on the radio, passing through endless channels of static, interspersed with news of wars overseas and an ever-looming financial collapse.
Sam snorted, “They talk about collapse like it hasn’t happened yet.”
Carter nodded and stared out the window. “Yeah, they think it’s something we’ll know once it’s here, like some natural disaster or 9/11. A date we can point at and say ‘This is when things went to shit.’” Carter jabbed his finger into the dash, then flipped the radio off again. “They’re all too chicken shit to say the whole damn world’s been turned inside out for some time now.”
He shifted in his seat, trying to find a different position that didn’t feel like his ass was sitting on a flat rock. By now, it was coming up on two. They had been working this case for three days, neither of them sleeping much. One of the nights, Carter slept in the office, and the other nights he only went home for a few hours to have a nap and shower.
After a long silence, Sam asked, “What’s the longest surveillance you’ve ever done?”
“Longest was this guy who just got out of prison. He killed a guy in a bar fight. Punched him once. The other guy goes down and hits his head on the bar. Cracks his head open like a coconut.” Carter balled his hands together, and then pulled them apart. “Never woke up.”
Carter kept his eyes locked on Orcheck’s house. The lights inside were off, except a constant flickering of a television.
“What’re the odds of that?” Sam asked. “One punch and a guy knocks his head just right on the bar?”
“It’s probably more likely than you think. Well it turns out the dead guy, with the cracked skull, was sleeping with the other guy’s wife.”
“Shit,” Sam sighed.
“Yeah, and the wife was there in the bar when all this went down. The guy had followed them there and confronted them both. He was about to punch the wife, but the boyfriend stepped in. Took the punch.”
“Took more than just a punch.” Sam shook his head.
“This guy standing over the dead guy screaming in his face. Yelling about how he hopes he never wakes up and all that. Then he starts in on the wife. Calling her every name in the book. Cunt. Slut. Says she’s next. Strangers in the bar start holding him back. The guy just goes crazy.”
As he told the story, Carter monitored Orcheck’s house, watching the street for passing cars. A small detached shed sat in the backyard. He shuffled again, still trying to find a comfortable position, but it was hopeless.
“The guy got twelve years, aggravated battery or something, but he ended up serving only seven. They said he was a model prisoner.” Carter rolled his eyes. “Once he got out, he started writing letters to his ex. Picked up right where he left off. Name calling. Threats. All that.”
“Psycho.”
“So, she comes to me. Freaked out. Just wants someone to watch the guy. Make sure he doesn’t go buy a weapon or start stalking her.”
“Protection?” Sam asked.
“Yes and no. I told her I’m not a bodyguard.”
“Clearly,” Sam chuckled under his breath.
“But she just wanted a heads-up if something was gonna go down. She had a bag packed and all that, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. So, I watched him.”
Sam just stared at Carter. “…And?”
Carter let out a deep sigh. “I watched that guy for a month.”
“A month! Shit that’s a long time. Talk about steady work.”
Carter nodded. “It was steady … for a while. Until she blew through what little savings she had. I think she lost her job or something. Sold some of her things even to keep me watching this psycho. That’s how scared she was. But eventually she ran out of money, ran out of things to sell, ran out of just about everything.” Carter shook his head. “So, she couldn’t pay. And I stopped watching this guy.” Carter swallowed deep in his throat and clenched his teeth. “Soon after, I see an article about her being murdered. Beat to death. The guy stomped on her face until it was just…” Carter sighed and shook his head. He cleared his throat.
“Fuck,” Sam said. “Sorry man.”
Carter swallowed again, pushing something down that rested in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was tears. Maybe it was more, an overwhelming dread or heartache. Carter didn’t know, and he didn’t want it to come to the surface.
“I know people are capable of a lot of shit,” Carter said. “I’m not naïve. But to put on a face for seven years in prison. Play nice just to get paroled, and then immediately flip the switch back like that. That’s more than a blind hatred. It was a calculation, a long-term plan. He was a psychopath in the truest sense of the word.”
“Hey,” Sam sat up. “We got movement!” A porch light was on, and Dennis stepped out into the misting rain, carrying a backpack. He wore a black apron and rubber gloves up to his elbows. Carter tracked Orcheck through the rain, squinting each time he fell into the shadows.
“What are you up to Orcheck?” Carter said to himself.
“What’s in the backpack? What is he going for a stroll at two a.m. for?”
Dennis crept through his yard and circled around the side of his house to the small shed, glancing around before entering.
“We have to get a closer look.” Carter opened the car door.
Sam stretched his arm across Carter’s chest. “Wait, wait, wait. We were just going to watch him.”
“You saw the man.” Carter pointed at the shed. “Fucking rubber gloves and an apron. We’ve got to move on him. At least get a look in that shed.”
Carter stepped out into the misty rain. Sam grabbed his revolver off the dash and jumped out on his side. They swiftly crossed the road, avoiding the streetlights.
Carter walked close to Sam and whispered, “Let’s clear the house first.”
“You said the shed! Now you want to break in his house too?”
“We know where he is.” He gestured at the shed with his gun. “We can sweep the house first, make sure no one’s there, and then get to the shed.”
“Told you you’re stubborn. Lead the way.”
Carter stayed low and sped from tree to tree, hiding from view as best he could. They reached the house. Carter twisted the knob and stepped inside.
The back door led into the kitchen. The house was dark except for a TV in the living room, playing some old western movie. Carter motioned to Sam and mouthed the word ‘gloves.’ Sam reached in his back pocket and handed them to Carter. Snapping them on, he scanned the counter for signs of anyone else living in the home.
He opened the refrigerator, casting a harsh blue light, and glanced inside – beer, bottled water, and a gallon of expired milk. Two vials of some sort of medicine sat on the top shelf. He read the label and briefly thought to write the drug name in his notes. No time, he concluded. Likely a sedative. Sick fuck.
The freezer was filled with frozen meals. Bachelor, Carter figured. He felt a bit more confident that no one else was in the house. At least, no one else that wouldn’t want them snooping around.
The two moved on, stepping softly on the hardwood floors, swiveling their heads back and forth to take in their surroundings. A beer and a half-eaten sandwich sat on the coffee table. Gunshots and the movie sound of punches drifted from the TV. Carter made his way down the hall to a bedroom.
The bed was messy, sheets balled up at the foot and the fitted sheet pulled off one corner of the mattress. Clothes thrown carelessly on the floor. It reminded Carter of Rose’s bedroom.
A pile of clothes sat against one wall and covered the entire floor of the closet. Sam started digging. Carter scanned the rest of the room, opened the dresser drawers, looking for a gun. Nothing. He looked under the bed and shoved his hands in between the mattress and box spring. Still no weapon. The more he searched, the more he felt they had the upper hand on Dennis Orcheck.
“Carter.” Sam had dug through the clothes to the very back of the closet. He emerged holding a digital camera. “Look. This thing was crammed back there. Completely hidden.” Sam scrolled through the photos on the camera, Carter looking over his shoulder. Dennis posed with students at school, mostly girls. His arms wrapped around them, pulling them in close.
“Creep,” Sam whispered and kept scrolling until they came across more photos. Not posed shots. The people in these photos weren’t aware they were being photographed at all. Girls on a field in cheerleading outfits, practicing. Track students running and stretching. Carter shook his head and took a deep breath. Eventually, Sam scrolled until they saw closeup shots of the same girls. Pictures zoomed in, under their skirts or up their shorts.
“That’s enough,” Carter whispered and pushed the camera down. “He’d need a good lens to get those shots and not be seen, 300mm or more.”
“Probably buried under his dirty laundry.” Sam pointed at the pile of clothes on the floor. “I knew this fucking guy was a creep.”
Carter ejected the memory card from the camera and stuffed it in his coat pocket.
“To the shed?” Sam asked.
Carter nodded. The two men retraced their steps until they were back outside. Rain soaked Carter’s hair and dripped down his forehead into his eyes. His gun felt heavier than usual.
He marched towards the unknown, unsure if he wanted to be right or wrong about Orcheck, unsure if he wanted to follow in Leland’s footsteps and find another dead girl. If he was right, he likely would find something in the shed he couldn’t shake from his mind. But if he was wrong … it was just as likely they would be in jail awaiting a hearing for breaking and entering come morning.
Carter pressed his back against the wall of the shed next to the door. Once they burst in, there was no turning back. Nodding at Sam, Carter bent his elbows and held his gun close to his face. Sam gripped the doorknob and gently twisted. In one swift motion, Sam yanked the door open, and Carter lunged into the shed, pointing his gun straight at Dennis Orcheck.
“Freeze!”
“What the—!” Dennis jumped back. The entire shed w
as engulfed in soft red light. Dennis backed up until he slammed against a shelf, knocking over several tubs of liquid that splashed on the floor. Running overhead were strings with photos pinned to them.
“Put your hands up!” Carter shouted again and tightened his grip on his gun. He looked around, hoping to find Rose. Nothing but photos and tubs of developing baths.
“Wha – who – please, just leave me alone! Take what you want!” Dennis pled, raising his gloved hands into the air.
Carter reached back with his free hand and pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his waistband. The red lights overhead cast harsh shadows.
“You – you’re from the school!” Dennis started to lower his hands.
“Keep your hands up.” Sam took a short step closer. Dennis shot his hands back up.
“What – what do you want?”
“Where’s Rose?” Carter stepped towards Dennis with the handcuffs. The walls of the already small shed closed in around him, and Carter wondered if the chemicals in the developing baths were caustic.
“I told you, I don’t know!” Dennis said. “I – I—”
“But you raped her, didn’t you?” Carter said, cringing at the thought.
Dennis gradually lowered his hands. “It wasn’t like that.”
Taking his eyes off Dennis just long enough to look at the photos dangling around his head, Carter said, “Don’t give me that bullshit.” He took one large step towards Dennis and pushed his gun hard against his chest.
“Turn the fuck around!” Carter spun Dennis around and pushed on his back until he was bent over and sprawled out on a table. “Did you kill her cuz she got pregnant?” he growled and moved his gun, so the barrel pressed against Dennis’ head.
“I didn’t kill anyone!” Dennis said, his voice breaking slightly.
“Then where is she!” Carter yelled, bringing the grip of the pistol down hard against Dennis’ head.
“Whoa, whoa,” Sam said. “Carter!”
“He knows where she is, Sam!” The walls of the shed swayed and creaked as the wind blew hard against its frame.
“And he can’t talk if he isn’t awake.”