The Fourth Monkey

by J. D. Barker

  Clair squeezed his hand. “We figured you went down there for something like that. If there’s anything you need, just ask. Okay?”

  Porter agreed. “Let’s get back on track and go over what we know.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for that?” Nash asked.

  “I’m still a little groggy from the anesthetic, and they’ve got me on some wonderful painkillers. I guess that dumbs me down to your level, and you seem to function okay.”

  “Smart enough to not get stabbed.”

  Porter waved him off. “Clair, think you can run the board from here?”

  She nodded and held up her phone. “I’ve got everything on here.” She clicked away for a moment and brought up her notepad app. “All right, our man in the morgue is not the Four Monkey Killer. Instead, we’ve got the elusive Anson Bishop.” She turned to Kloz. “I want you to get back to the station and dig up anything and everything you can on him. Particularly his movements through the city. We might get lucky and find Emory based on his cell phone GPS data. I’ll get a warrant.”

  “He probably used a throwaway,” Kloz pointed out.

  “Maybe, maybe not. He didn’t expect us to figure out who he was, at least not yet. You may want to dig into the Paul Watson identity as well. There could be something there.”

  “We need to check the log,” Porter said.

  Clair frowned. “What log?”

  “We had to sign in at the Fifty-First. That means he wrote down a contact phone number and address.”

  Nash pulled out his own phone and began to dial. “On it.”

  Clair went on. “We know Bishop planted the shoes on Kittner. He wanted him to die in those shoes so we’d trace them back to Talbot. That means every other item he had on his person is a potential clue.”

  “Some change, a dry cleaner receipt, a fedora, the pocket watch . . . what does it all mean?”

  “Puzzle it out,” Porter muttered.

  “What?”

  Porter shook his head. “It’s just a phrase he used a few times in the diary. Can you hand it to me? It was in my pants pocket when they brought me in.”

  Clair scanned the room and spotted Porter’s possessions in a sealed plastic bag on a shelf in the closet to the right of the bathroom. She retrieved the diary and handed it to him.

  “Since I’m stuck here, I’ll finish this up. I don’t have much left to go.”

  Nash disconnected his call and returned to Porter’s bedside. “He wrote down an address on LaSalle—not Kittner’s address, this is someplace new: Berwyn Apartments.”

  “Okay, that’s got to mean something. Get Espinosa to meet you and Clair out there,” Porter said.

  “What do you think his endgame is?” Nash asked. “We’ve got a lot of information on Talbot, but nothing damning enough for hard charges. I’m guessing that means Bishop isn’t done yet. We’re still missing something.”

  “Talbot needs Emory alive in order to complete his waterfront project,” Clair said.

  “How so?” Porter asked.

  She told him about their interview with Talbot.

  “That doesn’t mean Bishop needs her alive,” Nash countered. “If anything, he may kill her just to take down the project.”

  Porter thought about this for a minute. “I agree with Nash. 4MK always kills the loved one of the person committing the crime. I don’t think he gives a rat’s ass about Emory as long as he can bring Talbot down. My guess is he left my place and went straight to wherever he’s been holding her. He wants to finish this. In his eyes, I think everything ends with her.”

  * * *

  Evidence Board

  4MK = PAUL WATSON = ANSON BISHOP

  Victims

  1. Calli Tremell, 20, March 15, 2009

  2. Elle Borton, 23, April 2, 2010

  3. Missy Lumax, 18, June 24, 2011

  4. Susan Devoro, 26, May 3, 2012

  5. Barbara McInley, 17, April 18, 2013 (only blonde)

  6. Allison Crammer, 19, November 9, 2013

  7. Jodi Blumington, 22, May 13, 2014

  Emory Connors, 15, November 3, 2014

  Left for a jog, 6:03 p.m. yesterday

  TYLER MATHERS

  Emory’s boyfriend—nephew to—

  JACOB KITTNER—man hit by bus

  ARTHUR TALBOT

  Finances?

  Body found in Mulifax Publications Building (owned by Talbot) identified as Gunther Herbert, CFO Talbot Enterprises

  Something fishy with the Moorings Development (owned by Talbot)

  Emory owns land/Moorings Development

  N. BURROW

  Housekeeper? Nanny?—A little of both Tutor

  ITEMS FOUND ON 4MK—KITTNER’S

  Expensive shoes—John Lobb/$1500 pair—size 11/UNSUB wears size 9— have Talbot’s prints on them

  Cheap suit

  Fedora

  .75 in change (two quarters, two dimes, and a nickel)

  Pocket watch

  Dry cleaner receipt (ticket 54873)—Kloz is narrowing down stores

  Dying of stomach cancer—meds: octreotide, trastuzumab, oxycodone, lorazepam

  Tattoo, right inner wrist, fresh—figure eight, infinity?

  Calc book—left by 4MK—leads to—

  MULIFAX PUBLICATIONS WAREHOUSE

  Partial print found on railcar at tunnel mouth. Probably used to transport the body. Print = Watson/Bishop/4MK

  Ear, eyes, and tongue left in boxes (Gunther Herbert)—brochure on body AND boxes lead to—

  THE MOORINGS LAKESIDE DEVELOPMENT

  Extensive search—nothing found

  Video footage—Appears 4MK committed suicide, no clear visual on face

  Assignments:

  Clair and Nash to go to address on LaSalle (4MK/Bishop’s apartment)

  Kloz, research Watson/Bishop/4MK

  Porter, finish diary

  * * *

  64

  Emory

  Day 2 • 4:18 p.m.

  Emory’s world went silent.

  A silence so deafening it tore at the space behind her eyes with a red heat, rushing through her good ear and into her brain, then out the other side with the ferocity of boiling oil. She pressed at the side of her head with her free hand and cursed the one that was bound.

  Why wasn’t this nightmare over?

  “Please just kill me,” Emory whispered in a voice that wasn’t her own. A thin, dry voice that sanded the back of her throat. It was the voice of a girl she didn’t want to know.

  The music was gone, replaced with a loud ringing she knew was only in her mind but seemed to echo off the walls anyway. It fed the migraine, which grew from a headache that grew from her singular desire to just die rather than endure another hour of this hell.

  The music was gone, again. But it would be back. The music always came back.

  The last song to play was “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin. She knew the song but had no idea from where. That the name of the band came so easily when she couldn’t recall the day of the week surprised her. They sang “Stairway to Heaven,” and she had been waiting for that one. She had heard the song four times already since waking in this place, and she was beginning to think of the little tune as her official marker of another day past, but it hadn’t played today. Or had it? When did it play last? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything.

  You’re dehydrated, dear. I think your hand is infected now too. You’re quite the mess. Nobody is going to ask you to prom in this state, that’s for sure.

  Her hand probably was infected. The pain throbbing at her wrist nearly matched that of her head.

  She refused to touch the wrist again.

  She wouldn’t do that.

  No, sir.

  The last time she touched the wrist, it didn’t feel like part of her at all. It felt like a stuffed glove. It was so swollen—at least twice its normal size—and the flesh around the cuffs had become all damp and mushy. Oddly, that part didn’t hurt as much as the wrist itse
lf, and she couldn’t help but wonder why that was. Had the cuffs severed the nerves?

  The bones sat at the oddest angle too, her fingers pointing back in a direction they were not meant to point, the kind of gesture only cartoon characters seemed to make. It wasn’t good; it wasn’t good at all.

  She should take her pulse again, but such things didn’t seem important anymore.

  I bet you could eat a rat.

  “I’m not going to eat a rat,” Emory replied, rubbing her temple. “I’d rather die.”

  Would you, dear? Because I would rather eat a rat. I would eat a rat without giving it a second thought, if I happened to be in your position. You could snap its little neck and use the sharp edge of the gurney to slice it open. If you do it quick, the meat would still be warm. It would be like eating leftover chicken from the bucket. You’ve done that; I’ve seen you.

  “I will not eat a rat,” Emory said again, this time louder, more defiant.

  It’s so dark, you could pretend you were eating just about anything. How about ribs? You love ribs.

  Emory’s stomach gurgled.

  It’s not like your friends would find out, and even if they did, do you think they would blame you? I bet they would congratulate you on your bravery and resourcefulness.

  Although Emory couldn’t see any rats, she was sure more than one occupied her cell. On occasion they ran across her feet and legs when she was lying on the ground. Even now, as she sat on the top of the gurney, she felt something watching her. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Can rats see in the dark? Had she pondered that already? She no longer remembered.

  Of course, you’d need to catch one first. Oh, I think you should try, don’t you? It would be our little secret. I promise, I won’t tell anyone. A little meal would do you so much good. You’d get your strength back, you’d be able to concentrate. Maybe you’d be able to revisit this little dilemma and come up with a way to get out. I hear rat is excellent brain food, good for the memory.

  Emory closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then began counting backward from ten in an attempt to shut out the voice. When she reached one, all was silent.

  I bet their eyes taste like candy.

  “Shut up!” she shouted.

  “I. Will. Not. Eat. A. Rat!”

  Suit yourself, sweetie. I’m pretty sure they won’t hesitate to eat you, though, when you finally starve to death. They’re probably drawing straws right now to see who gets the first nibble.

  A loud click.

  Emory’s vision went blinding white. She squeezed her eyes shut, and when that wasn’t enough, she pressed her face into her leg and covered it with her arm. It didn’t help, though. She saw pink through it all, she saw the blood vessels of her eyelids. Her surroundings flooded with light, and it was so bright, it burned.

  She heard someone shriek, a horrible cry echoing all around her. It wasn’t until she gulped a breath that she realized the scream came from her. She swallowed it back and went silent, save for the pounding of her heart and the wheeze of each drawn breath.

  Emory forced herself to open her eyes, and through the tears she could tell the bright light came from far above. She arched her back and faced up, looked toward it.

  A shadow moved high above, impossibly high above, and with the shadow came a voice, a voice that echoed down to her and reverberated off the walls, sounding as if he stood only a few feet away.

  “Hi, Emory. Sorry it took me so long to visit. I’ve been a very busy boy.”

  65

  Diary

  I don’t recall sleeping, but I must have drifted off at some point because I had lain down on my back and was now on my side with a little pool of drool on the pillow beside me. I still wore the clothes I had worn yesterday, with the exception of my tennis shoes, because shoes should never be worn while lying on a bed, whether above the covers or not. Father told both Mother and me it would be best if we remained dressed so we could act quickly should Mr. Stranger return during the night.

  According to the clock on my nightstand, it was nearly eight.

  I rose, stretched, and went to my door.

  I had placed my chair under the knob again last night. I was fairly certain Mother no longer wished to hurt me, but I figured it was better to err on the side of caution.

  The chair groaned as I pushed it aside, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway.

  I found Father asleep on the couch again. Perhaps he was passed out. An empty bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum lay on the floor at his side, and he was snoring rather loudly.

  The door to my parents’ room was closed. Mother was most likely sound asleep as well. Both had been up late into the night, discussing our current situation. I wanted to stay with them, but Father insisted I get some rest. I think he also wanted to speak to Mother alone.

  While I am fully aware that eavesdropping is not the proper behavior of a budding young gentleman, I listened anyway. Unfortunately, they anticipated my actions, because they kept their voices to a low muffle completely indecipherable from my location. I imagine it didn’t end well if Mother slept alone in the bedroom and Father found himself on the couch for the second night in a row. Unless, of course, he’d decided to stand watch. Had he assigned such a task to himself, he was doing a poor job.

  If Mother was still in the bedroom, that meant she had yet to speak to Mrs. Carter. This was good too, for I wanted to take part in that discussion, providing I was permitted.

  Father would probably wake soon, and I knew he would likely have a tremendous headache with an appetite of equal proportion following quickly on its heels, so I set upon the kitchen to make breakfast. Twenty minutes later I had a plate of toast slathered in butter, sliced oranges, and a skillet of eggs scrambled with American cheese on our little table.

  As a child to the pied piper, Mother emerged from the bedroom with a yawn and took her seat. “Did you make coffee?”

  I had, in fact, made coffee, so I set a cup in front of her and filled it to the rim. Added two lumps of sugar and a hint of cream.

  “Thank you.”

  From his spot on the couch, Father groaned and awoke. He lowered his feet to the floor and wiped at his tired, red eyes. “What time is it?” His voice was hoarse, filled with gravel.

  “Eight oh seven,” I told him. “Would you care for breakfast, Father?”

  He nodded and stood, stretching before the large living room window. “Oh, my.”

  Father was staring outside, his face slack and pale. “Take a look at this.”

  Mother and I walked over and joined him. I felt a fist reach around my heart and squeeze.

  The Carters’ Dodge Aries was back in their driveway. Both doors were open, and the clothing I had so carefully packed was strewn around the yard and driveway. Not just their yard and driveway, but ours as well. I spotted a shirt hanging from the large hackberry tree on the corner of our property; tennis shoes and flip-flops adorned Mother’s prize rosebush, and—

  Oh my. Father’s Porsche. The black convertible top was down, and the passenger door stood ajar. Father would never leave his top down overnight unless the car was garaged, and leaving the door open under any circumstance was unacceptable.

  Father pushed past us and ran outside. I tried to stop him, fearful that whoever had done this (most likely Mr. Stranger and his friend, but I wasn’t one to jump to conclusions) may still be out there, but I was not strong enough to hold him back.

  As I approached the car, I realized the top wasn’t down—it was no longer there. Someone had cut it away with ragged strokes of a blade and shoved the remains of the cloth behind the driver’s seat.

  The damage didn’t stop there.

  All four tires were flat. I inspected the one nearest to me and had no trouble discovering where the knife had entered the rubber. There were two punctures directly in the sidewall, eliminating any chance of patching the tire. It would need to be replaced. I assumed the others were in similar condition.

 
Both headlights were smashed. Bits of glass littered the bumper and the driveway. The taillights too. Someone had kicked them in or hit them with a bat. It was hard to tell which.

  How had they done such a thing without making any noise? Surely we would have heard something like this?

  Words were scrawled into the paint, foul words, nasty words. And the seats? The knife that had made quick work of the top and tires had found its way into the plush black leather and sliced it away in thin strips, releasing a flurry of stuffing upon the interior.

  I noticed that the hood of the car was slightly ajar at about the same time Father did, and both of us reached for it and lifted it up. The wires leading to the battery had been pulled and reversed, all but guaranteeing that every electrical component in the car had been destroyed. I could still smell the sulfur in the air. The damage from such a maneuver would have been instant, but the culprit had taken the time to tighten the wires back down in their reversed position anyway, ensuring the most destruction. The battery had burst under the stress, and sulphuric acid had boiled out from the casing vents at the top, dripping down over the spare tire and toolkit Father kept in the front trunk.

  The rear trunk was open too. The oil fill cap was missing, as was the one that belonged on the coolant tank. Nearly a pound of sugar coated the surface of both. No doubt it had been poured in each tank.