by J. D. Barker
It was the start of something horrible. Something planned.
Something evil.
He had been there at the beginning. Was he now witnessing the end?
“What’s in the box?”
“We haven’t opened it yet,” Nash replied. “But I think you know.”
The package was small. Approximately four inches square and three inches high. Like the others. Wrapped in white paper and secured with black string. The address label was handwritten in careful script. There wouldn’t be any prints, never were. The stamps were self-adhesive—they wouldn’t find saliva.
He glanced back at the body bag. “Do you really think it’s him? Do you have a name?”
Nash shook his head. “No wallet or ID on him. He left his face on the pavement and in the bus’s grill. We ran his prints but couldn’t find a match. He’s a nobody.”
“Oh, he’s somebody,” Porter said. “Do you have any gloves?”
Nash pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and handed them to Porter. Porter slipped them on and nodded toward the box. “Do you mind?”
“We waited for you,” Nash said. “This is your case, Sam. Always was.”
When Porter crouched and reached for the box, one of the crime-scene techs rushed over, fumbling with a small video camera. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have orders to document this.”
“It’s fine, son. Only you, though. Are you ready?”
A red light on the front of the camera blinked to life, and the tech nodded. “Go ahead, sir.”
Porter turned the box so he could read the address label, carefully avoiding the droplets of crimson. “Arthur Talbot, 1547 Dearborn Parkway.”
Nash whistled. “Ritzy neighborhood. Old money. I don’t recognize the name, though.”
“Talbot’s an investment banker,” the CSI tech replied. “Heavy into real estate too. Lately he’s been converting warehouses near the lakefront into lofts—doing his part to force out low-income families and replace them with people who can afford the high rent and Starbucks grandes on the regular.”
Porter knew exactly who Arthur Talbot was. He looked up at the tech. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Paul Watson, sir.”
Porter couldn’t help but grin. “You’ll make an excellent detective one day, Dr. Watson.”
“I’m not a doctor, sir. I’m working on my thesis, but I’ve got at least two more years to go.”
Porter chuckled. “Doesn’t anyone read anymore?”
“Sam, the box?”
“Right. The box.”
He tugged at the string and watched as the knot unraveled and came apart. The white paper beneath had been neatly folded over the corners, ending in perfect little triangles. Like a gift. He wrapped it like a gift. The paper came away easily, revealing a black box. Porter set the paper and string aside, glanced at Nash and Watson, then slowly lifted the lid.
The ear had been washed clean of blood and rested on a blanket of cotton. Just like the others.
4
Porter
Day 1 • 7:05 a.m.
“I need to see his body.”
Nash glanced nervously at the growing crowd. “Are you sure you want to do that here? There are a lot of eyes on you right now.”
“Let’s get a tent up.”
Nash signaled to one of the officers.
Fifteen minutes later, much to the dismay of oncoming traffic, a twelve-by-twelve tent stood on Fifty-Fifth Street, blocking one of the two eastbound lanes. Nash and Porter slipped through the flap, followed closely by Eisley and Watson. A uniformed guard took up position at the door in case someone snuck past the barricades at the scene perimeter and tried to get in.
Six 1,200-watt halogen floodlights stood on yellow metal tripods in a semicircle around the body, filling the small space with sharp, bright light.
Eisley reached down and peeled back the top flap of the bag.
Porter knelt. “Has he been moved at all?”
Eisley shook his head. “We photographed him, and then I got him covered as quickly as I could. That’s how he landed.”
He was facedown on the blacktop. There was a small pool of blood near his head with a streak leading toward the edge of the tent. His dark hair was close-cropped, sprinkled with gray.
Porter donned another pair of latex gloves from a box at his left and gently lifted the man’s head. It pulled away from the cold asphalt with a slurp not unlike Fruit Roll-Ups as they’re peeled from the plastic. His stomach grumbled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten yet. Probably a good thing. “Can you help me turn him over?”
Eisley took the man’s shoulder, and Nash positioned himself at his feet.
“On three. One, two . . .”
It was too soon for rigor to set in; the body was loose. It looked like the right leg was broken in at least three spots; the left arm too, probably more.
“Oh, God. That’s nasty.” Nash’s eyes were fixed on the man’s face. More accurately, where his face should have been. His cheeks were gone, only torn flaps remaining. His jawbone was clearly visible but broken—his mouth gaped open as if someone had gripped both halves of his jaw and pulled them apart like a bear trap. One eye was ruptured, oozing vitreous fluid. The other stared blindly up at them, green in the bright light.
Porter leaned in closer. “Do you think you can reconstruct this?”
Eisley nodded. “I’ll get somebody on it as soon as we get him back to my lab.”
“Tough to say, but based on his build and the slight graying in the hair, I’d guess he’s late forties, early fifties, at the most.”
“I should be able to get you a more precise age too,” Eisley said. He was examining the man’s eyes with a penlight. “The cornea is still intact.”
Porter knew they were able to able to estimate age through the carbon dating of material in the eyes; it was called the Lynnerup method. The process could narrow the age down to within a year or two.
The man wore a navy pinstripe suit. The left sleeve was shredded; a jagged bone poked out near the elbow.
“Did someone find his other shoe?” The right was missing. His dark sock was damp with blood.
“A uniform picked it up. It’s on that table over there.” Nash pointed to the far right. “He was wearing a fedora too.”
“A fedora? Are those making a comeback?”
“Only in the movies.”
“There’s something in this pocket.” Watson was pointing at the right breast pocket of the man’s jacket. “It’s square. Another box?”
“No, too thin.” Porter carefully unbuttoned the jacket and reached inside, retrieving a small Tops composition book, like the ones students carried prior to tablets and smartphones: 4½" x 3¼" with a black and white cover and college-ruled pages. It was nearly full, each page covered in handwriting so small and precise that two lines of text filled the space normally occupied by one. “This could be something. Looks like some kind of diary. Good catch, Doc.”
“I’m not a—”
Porter waved a hand at him. “Yeah, yeah.” He turned back to Nash. “I thought you said you checked his pockets?”
“We only searched the pants for a wallet. I wanted to wait for you to process the body.”
“We should check the rest, then.”
He began with the right front pants pocket, checking them again in case something was missed, then worked his way around the body. As items were discovered, he gently set them down at his side. Nash tagged them and Watson photographed.
“That’s it. Not much to go on.”
Porter examined the items:
Dry cleaner’s receipt
Pocket watch
Seventy-five cents in assorted change
The receipt was generic. Aside from number 54873, it didn’t contain any identifying information, not even the name or address of the cleaners.
“Run everything for prints,” Porter instructed.
Nash frowned. “What for? We have him, and his prints came bac
k negative.”
“Guess I’m hoping for a Hail Mary. Maybe we’ll find a match and it will lead to someone who can identify him. What do you make of the watch?”
Nash held the timepiece up to the light. “I don’t know anyone who carries a pocket watch anymore. Think maybe this guy’s older than you thought?”
“The fedora would suggest that too.”
“Unless he’s just into vintage,” Watson pointed out. “I know a lot of guys like that.”
Nash pushed the crown, and the watch’s face snapped open. “Huh.”
“What?”
“It stopped at fourteen past three. That’s not when this guy got hit.”
“Maybe the impact jarred it?” Porter thought aloud.
“There’s not a scratch on it, though, no sign of damage.”
“Probably something internal, or maybe it wasn’t wound. Can I take a look?”
Nash handed the pocket watch to Porter.
Porter twisted the crown. “It’s loose. The spring’s not grabbing. Amazing craftsmanship though. I think it’s handmade. Collectible for sure.”
“I’ve got an uncle,” Watson announced.
“Well, congrats on that, kid,” Porter replied.
“He owns an antique shop downtown. I bet he could give us some color on this.”
“You’re really trying to earn a gold star today, aren’t you? Okay, you’re on watch duty. Once these things are logged into inventory, take it down there and see what you can find out.”
Watson nodded, his face beaming.
“Anybody notice anything odd about what he’s wearing?”
Nash examined the body once more, then shook his head.
“The shoes are nice,” Eisley said.
Porter smiled. “They are, aren’t they? Those are John Lobbs. They go for about fifteen hundred a pair. The suit is cheap, though, possibly from a box store or the mall. Probably no more than a few hundred at best.”
“So, what are you thinking?” Nash asked. “He works in shoes?”
“Not sure. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Just seems odd a man would spend so much on shoes without a comparable spend on his suit.”
“Unless he works in shoe sales and got some kind of deal? That does makes sense,” Watson said.
“I’m glad you concur. Silly comments will get your gold star revoked.”
“Sorry.”
“No worries, Doc. I’m just busting your balls. I’d pick on Nash, but he’s too used to my shit at this point. It’s no fun anymore.” Porter’s attention drifted back to the small composition book. “Can you hand me that?”
Watson passed it to him, and he turned to the first page. Porter’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the text.
Hello, my friend.
I am a thief, a murderer, a kidnapper. I’ve killed for fun. I’ve killed out of necessity. I have killed for hate. I have killed simply to satisfy the need that tends to grow in me with the passage of time. A need much like a hunger that can only be quenched by the draw of blood or the song found in a tortured scream.
I tell you this not to frighten you or impress you but simply to state the facts, to put my cards on the table.
My IQ is 156, a genius level by all accounts.
A wise man once said, “To measure your own IQ, to attempt to label your intelligence, is a sign of your own ignorance.” I did not ask to take an IQ test; it was administered upon me—take from that what you will.
None of this defines who I am, only what I am. That is why I’ve chosen to put pen to paper, to share that which I am about to share. Without the sharing of knowledge, there can be no growth. You (as a society) will not learn from your many mistakes. And you have so much to learn.
Who am I?
To share my name would simply take the fun out of this, don’t you think?
You most likely know me as the Four Monkey Killer. Why don’t we leave it at that? Perhaps 4MK, for those of you prone to abbreviate? The simpler of the lot. No need to exclude anyone.
We are going to have such fun, you and I.
“Holy fuck,” Porter muttered.
5
Diary
I’d like to set the record straight from the very beginning.
This is not my parents’ fault.
I grew up in a loving home that would have made Norman Rockwell take note.
My mother, God bless her soul, gave up a promising career in publishing to stay home after my birth, and I don’t believe she ever longed to return. She had breakfast on the table every morning for my father and me, and supper was held promptly at six. We cherished such family time, and it was spent in the most jovial of ways.
Mother would recount her exploits of the day with Father and me listening attentively. The sound of her voice was that of angels, and to this day I long for more.
Father worked in finance. I am most certain he was held in high regard by his peers, although he didn’t discuss his work at home. He firmly believed that the day-to-day happenings of one’s employ should remain at the place of business, not brought home and spilled within the sanctuary of the residence as one might dump out a bucket of slop for the pigs to feast on. He left work at work, where it belonged.
He carried a shiny black briefcase, but I never once saw him open it. He set it beside the front door each night, and there it remained until he left for the office on the next business day. He would scoop the briefcase up on his way out, only after a loving kiss for Mother and a pat on the head for me.
“Take care of your mother, my boy!” he would say. “You are the man of the house until I return. Should the bill man come knocking, send him next door to collect. Do not pay him any mind. He is of no consequence in the large scheme of things. Better you learn this now than fret about such things when you have a family of your own.”
Fedora upon his head and briefcase in hand, he would slip out the door with a smile and a wave. I would go to the picture window and watch him as he made his way down the walk (careful of the ice during the cold winters) and climbed into his little black convertible. Father drove a 1969 Porsche. It was a marvelous machine. A work of art with a throaty growl that rumbled forth with the turn of the key and grew louder still as it eased out onto the road and lapped up the pavement with hungry delight.
Oh, how Father loved that car.
Every Sunday we’d take a large blue bucket from the garage along with a handful of rags and wash it from top to bottom. He would spend hours conditioning the soft black top and applying wax to its metal curves, not once but twice. I was tasked with cleaning the spokes on the wheels, a job I took very seriously. When finished, the car shone as if the showroom was a recent memory. Then he would put the top down and take Mother and me on a Sunday drive. Although the Porsche was only a two-seater, I was a tiny lad and fit snugly in the space behind the seats. We would stop at the local Dairy Freeze for ice cream and soda, then head to the park for an afternoon stroll among the large oaks and grassy fields.
I would play with the other children as Mother and Father watched from the shade of an old tree, their hands entwined and love in their eyes. They would joke and laugh, and I could hear them as I ran after a ball or chased a Frisbee. “Watch me! Watch me!” I would shout. And they would. They watched me as parents should. They watched me with pride. Their son, their joy. I’d look back at the myself at that tender age. I’d look back at them under that tree, all in smiles. I’d look back and picture their necks sliced from ear to ear, blood pouring from the wounds and pooling in the grass beneath them. And I would laugh, my heart fluttering, I would laugh so.
Of course, that was years ago, but that is surely when it began.
6
Porter
Day 1 • 7:31 a.m.
Porter parked his Charger at the curb in front of 1547 Dearborn Parkway and stared up at the large stone mansion. Beside him, Nash ended the call on his phone. “That was the captain. He wants us to come in.”
“We will.”
; “He was pretty insistent.”
“4MK was about to mail the box here. The clock is ticking. We don’t have time to run back to headquarters right now,” Porter said. “We won’t be long. It’s important we stay ahead of this.”
“4MK? You’re really going to run with that?”
“4MK, Monkey Man, Four Monkey Killer. I don’t care what we call the crazy fuck.”
Nash was looking out the window. “This is one hell of a house. One family lives here?”
Porter nodded. “Arthur Talbot, his wife, a teenage daughter from his first marriage, probably one or two little yapping dogs, and a housekeeper or five.”
“I checked with Missing Persons, and Talbot hasn’t phoned anyone in,” Nash said. They exited the car and started up the stone steps. “How do you want to play this?”
“Quickly,” said Porter as he pressed the doorbell.
Nash lowered his voice. “Wife or daughter?”
“What?”
“The ear. Do you think it’s the wife or daughter?”
Porter was about to answer when the door inched open, held by a security chain. A Hispanic woman, no taller than five feet, glared at them with cold brown eyes. “Help you?”
“Is Mr. or Mrs. Talbot available?”
Her eyes shifted from Porter to Nash, then back again. “Momento.”
She closed the door.
“My money’s on the daughter,” Nash said.
Porter glanced down at his phone. “Her name is Carnegie.”
“Carnegie? Are you kidding me?”
“I’ll never understand rich people.”
When the door opened again, a blond woman in her early forties was standing at the threshold. She wore a beige sweater and tight black slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Attractive, Porter thought. “Mrs. Talbot?”