by Jacki Moss
The result was instant. The entire front porch lit up like a Fourth of July fireworks show, spreading flames from one end to the other. Chrissie scrambled back into the car, giggling like she had just egged someone’s house. Chad quickly pulled away from the house, making sure not to lay rubber, to avoid attention.
The fledgling arsonists, feeling pretty accomplished, high-fived each other as they drove to an all-night burger joint. With a sack full of burgers, large fries, and diet sodas to go, they were like kids who had pulled off a senior prank in high school. They just had to go back to the scene of the crime, at least for a minute or two, to admire their handiwork. They parked way down the block and scurried on foot toward the sirens and emergency lights at Cafton’s house. From three doors down, the house looked like a smoking hole. The bomb squad was there with half of the city’s fire departments’ fire engines and police department alongside them. Pleased with themselves and their accomplishment, they got back in her car. Next stop: the Alabama state line to catch up with the tour bus.
Chapter 21—Eye of the Storm
After fleeing the hotel, Chad had managed to get out of the city and out of the state, and to put several state lines between him and his last known whereabouts. Now, exhausted from walking halfway across Memphis, he decided it would be safe to take a bus to Nashville. He was in no mood or condition to hitchhike the last two hundred miles to fulfill his Nashville plot. He thought about calling Chrissie to come get him but decided the suspicious New Orleans detective might have her under surveillance or her phone tapped.
He stopped at a pay phone, flipped through the massive yellow pages, and found the address of the bus station. He asked a passerby how to get there. Mercifully, it was just a short walk from where he was, but he was already bone tired from his trek to downtown, and it was clabbering up outside. The heavens were rumbling, and God was putting on an astral light show. A real doozy of a storm was brewing.
Twenty minutes later, he was still trudging toward the bus station, now in a frigid driving rain. From time to time, he’d yell at God to stop throwing lightning bolts around him. He kept moving forward, grumbling to himself about his spate of bad luck of late. His self-pity knew no bounds. He was utterly miserable and had no one to gripe about it to or fix it for him.
Water poured off the brim of his ball cap, creating a constant waterfall right in front of his nose. His T-shirt was soaked, sticking to him like plastic wrap. His expensive, waterlogged tennis shoes were now rubbing blisters on his heels and squishing with each step. His sopping designer jeans were getting heavier by the minute and sliding down his flat ass, making him have to pull them up every few steps. He was cold and wet. It was dark. He was in a strange city. And he was alone, abandoned by his brothers and by his label, and now even Mother Nature was pissing on him.
He failed to see or appreciate the karma in his predicament.
Chad’s total lack of introspection made him immune to regret. His narcissism told him his murderous behavior was not only appropriate but damn brilliant. His disturbed thinking propelled him toward another murderous plan, which he determined would enable him to wash his hands of this whole unfortunate set of circumstances and move forward to his destiny of fame and fortune.
Chad was a perfect storm of bat-shit-crazy, with Cafton the bull’s-eye in the storm path.
His first stop in Nashville would be Cafton’s home—the snake’s nest, he called it—just in case the firebombing didn’t kill him. Hmm. How could he kill him? He deliberated. He didn’t have a gun. His only weapon was the penknife he used to carve on his mandolin. He would need to somehow sneak up on Cafton and catch him off guard, like he did Dangcat, and then find a way to eliminate him.
He briefly considered using the same wire he’d used on Dangcat, but then he remembered handing it as a souvenir to a girl near the stage during the New Orleans concert. He thought it was pretty ingenious to give away the murder weapon to someone in the audience. The authorities would never be able to locate it!
Hah! No body, as in no torso, and the head was five hundred miles and two states away from Nashville, with no dental identification potential, and no murder weapon! I have pulled off the perfect murder. No way can they connect me to Dangcat’s disappearance, Chad gloated to himself.
Well, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. To bring this unfortunate time of his life to conclusion, if necessary he’d eradicate Cafton with the same strategy. Decapitate him, pull his teeth, incinerate his torso, dump his head in another city on his way back home to Kentucky, and ditch the wire. Brilliant!
He had the materials to construct another decapitation wire from the same, bloodstained wood end pieces he’d kept as a trophy, and yet another broken mandolin string. He would have plenty of time on the bus ride to prepare that and to map out his plan for when he reached Cafton’s house.
Chad finally arrived at the bus station. The motor coach diesel fumes coated the back of his throat and gave him an immediate headache to add to his litany of misery. He scrutinized the station’s roofline and corners for cameras and was relieved not to see any. No cops in the parking lot. He peeked inside the lobby. No security guard, but there were security cameras pointed at the entrance, the bathrooms, the ticket counter, and the vending machines. He would have to be careful not to give the cameras or the ticketmaster a good look at his face.
He shook the water off his ball cap and put it back on, pulling it down over his face as much as possible before he slogged into the bus station lobby. Chad smacked his cold, bluish hand down on the shiny metal shelf in front of the Plexiglas ticket window, waking up the ticketmaster and several other people in the lobby.
“Ticket to Nashville,” he snapped, keeping his face concealed from the ticket guy.
“That’ll be eight seventy-five. Next available departure is eleven forty-five this morning,” the ticket guy said flatly.
“What the hell! That’s almost ten hours away! You gotta have more buses leaving before then, buddy!” Chad barked.
“Yes, yes, we do, buddy,” the bus guy said sarcastically, “but oddly enough, you aren’t the only person who wants to go from Memphis to Nashville. It’s our most popular route. See those people out there with the guitar cases?” he snarled, pointing an arthritic finger toward what looked like clusters of rodeo participants. “See the ones in cowboy hats? See the cowboy boots and rhinestone shirts? They are all headed to Nashville. So no seats are available tonight. Ya want the ticket or not, buddy?”
“Yeah. I want it.” Chad pulled two five-dollar bills from his soaked wallet and slid them under the open area under the window.
“Place your baggage in the opening to your right.”
“I got no baggage.”
“You’ve only got one seat, and there’s a small area for baggage overhead. You need to check that bowling ball bag and little guitar case,” bus guy ordered.
“No, I’ll keep them with me. These are valuable, and I don’t want some moron throwing them around.”
“I’ll tell the moron to be careful with your special baggage, but they need to be checked.”
“Not gonna happen. I’ll keep everything in my lap. And by the way, you need to think about increasing the number of busses to Nashville,” Chad advised.
“Thank you for you astute observation. I’ll call our CEO and let him know right away.” Bus guy was fed up with Chad’s attitude and arrogance. He made a point of peeking under Chad’s ball cap when he gave him his change. Smart-ass punk with a girlie ponytail and a tiny guitar, he thought as Chad walked away.
Chad would have to cool his heels for several hours, but according to the timetable, his bus would pull into Nashville at three-thirty tomorrow afternoon. He found an inconspicuous seat in a corner of the lobby away from the door, vending machines, restrooms, and other Nashville-bound riders. He took a seat and placed his bags and backpack in the seat next to the wall. Apparently these seats were empty because they were directly under an air-conditioning vent. Chad’s
sopping wet clothes made his seat’s wind chill hover around freezing. He felt like a carp. Or crap. He couldn’t decide which. Or carp crap. Trying to stop his teeth from chattering distracted him from any answer.
He thought about leaving and coming back, but his swollen feet and raging paranoia wouldn’t let him. He had to just camp out, eat his pilfered hotel snacks, and try to be invisible until he boarded the bus.
He tucked his hands under his armpits, slid his cap totally over his face, slouched down, and stretched out in the seat. Minutes later, he was sound asleep, snoring.
He didn’t hear bus guy announce over the intercom that it was time to board his bus, but bus guy didn’t want him there any longer than necessary or to have to deal with him about another ticket, so he went over to wake him.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, pulling Chad’s ball cap up off his face. “Your bus is departing.”
“Oh, shit! You scared me! What the hell are you doing messing with my cap!” Chad fumed.
“Cut the crap. Either get on the bus or get outta my lobby. We ain’t a damn motel.” Bus guy had his thumb in the air, pointing toward the door.
Chad gathered up his smelly baggage and boarded the bus. He would be in Nashville before nightfall.
Chapter 22—Convergence
Ketchum was a human bloodhound. He would follow the faintest whiff of a clue until he found his quarry, and he was usually right. That day, he was hot on the trail of his killer and didn’t want to lose the scent.
He had a lot of things to do, and they were all top priority. While his usual day-to-day demeanor was sluggish and somewhat haphazard, when he was on the hunt, he was at his best. He was in his element and felt young again. He was back in the game.
He hit it hard and heavy once he got back to New Orleans, blanketing Chad’s photo, his particulars, and a BOLO out to law enforcement agencies from Nebraska to the East Coast. He knew from experience there was no one more dangerous than a person with nothing to lose. Chad had already done the unthinkable. He had taken a soul, slapped God in the face, so anything was possible now.
Ketchum submitted the juice glass with Chad’s fingerprints to his lab for processing and made a call to the county sheriff in Kentucky who had arrested Chad a few years ago. He asked for a copy of Chad’s fingerprints for comparison. The sheriff remembered Chad and the arrest, since he was the offspring of a prominent family. He said he had in fact fingerprinted Chad because he was concerned Chad would be a frequent flyer at his facility if someone didn’t get through to him. He was not surprised Chad was being hunted by law enforcement, but the charge and heinous act did surprise him. Sure, he had heard rumors Chad was weird, that he had threatened to kill people for minor infractions he had blown out of proportion, but he had no idea Chad was capable of hands-on violence. He had been all mouth and, to his knowledge, had never stuck around long enough in an argument to get in a real fistfight. He was thought of as a kid with a lot of mouth and little courage.
Ketchum reminded the sheriff not to in any way alert anyone, especially Chad’s parents, that the authorities were looking for him. The sheriff, not wanting a cold-blooded killer to escape, readily agreed. He volunteered to have his deputies patrol Chad’s parents’ house and his usual hangouts. He would immediately fax a copy of Chad’s fingerprint card to Ketchum.
Ketchum’s next call was to Chief Heckle in Nashville. He had known Heckle since they were rookies at the police training academy. He had worked with him and then later for him at the Metro Police Department, when Ketchum was an upstart patrol cop and then major crimes detective there. He also knew Heckle’s legendary aversion to actual work. The farther up the ranks he climbed, the more he deemed himself a master delegator. The people who worked for and with him just called him lazy. Even so, his status of a good ol’ boy with a big shiny badge elevated him, sort of like social promotion in school for an unmotivated kid, to more and more responsible positions within the police department. He finally reached the pinnacle of his potential as chief of police, due mostly to one character trait: he was controllable. The city leaders knew Heckle was putty in their hands. He took orders well. He was their puppet. In return, he got a career.
Early on, Ketchum realized it was highly unlikely he would rise in the ranks as long as Heckle was the heir apparent to the chief position. He decided to move on, and ended up at the New Orleans PD. They welcomed Ketchum with open arms and sixteen banker’s boxes of unsolved crimes ranging from car thefts to gang murders to mafia hits. When, one by one, over the course of two years, he closed the files, usually successfully, he was summarily promoted to Chief of Detectives.
His relationship with Heckle was one of mutual respect and civility. People become cops for one of two reasons: to fulfill a deep desire to be of service to their community, or to fulfill a deep desire to control people. Some cops have big badge syndrome, others want to protect and serve. Heckle was the former, Ketchum the latter. Even at the police academy many years ago, the distinction between Heckle and Ketchum had been immediately apparent.
Heckle wanted to be a cop. Ketchum wanted to help people. Heckle fed on the fact he would have a uniform, gun, rifle, baton, handcuffs, and the knowledge of dozens of techniques to force people into submission.
Ketchum, however, was more interested in the law, how to find facts, and how to talk to a suspect and find the nugget of truth in a pile of bullshit. He wanted to make the world safer. He wanted to help the wheels of justice work.
In policing, it takes all kinds. But no one becomes a cop for the pay; it stinks, especially considering the potential danger and the everyday grind and stress of the job. The hours are long and irregular, which completely wreaks havoc with one’s circadian rhythms, sleep. Cops are either in profound sleep deprivation or they have just come off an eighteen-hour, semi-comatose sleep binge trying to make up for the sleep deprivation.
They eat bad food and eat it very quickly, because they don’t know when they will literally be called away, leaving the remains sitting in place like a criminal fleeing the scene of a meth bust. They can gulp down a cheeseburger like an oyster on a half shell. Grease goes down more easily, more quickly, and more satisfyingly than salads.
Relationships for cops are either strained, hanging by a thread, or nonexistent. Partners don’t share the love of being a cop. They are not afflicted by the internal dialogue that tells cops there is no other profession like this one, or that once a cop, always a cop. Being a cop isn’t a job; it’s a lifestyle. The Blue Brotherhood and all that jazz. Spouses may intellectually understand and appreciate the sacrifices made and respect the job done by their cop partner, but they don’t live and breathe being a cop. They want and need a partner, and what they have is a cop. Wondering—every day, every shift, every time their partner is five minutes late calling or coming home—if their partner is dead or alive is a dreadful, exhausting way to live. Some partners can hang on, because love, devotion, and commitment override their need for a normal life. But others simply cannot. It’s too much of a toll on them and their wellbeing. They may love their cop with all their heart, but they also want to live, to have a life, to not live in the shadow of the badge and carry the burden they never asked for.
Cops will tell you most days on patrol are intractable boredom until the unthinkable happens. Cops ride around watching, watching, watching. Asking people to move from fire lanes. Writing tickets for improper turns. Telling people not to loiter. Citing people for false security alarms.
Until all hell breaks loose.
They say they expect the unexpected, but how does one expect and plan for rounding a corner of a residence and being met with a brick to the face from the cousin of a fleeing felon? How does one ease the emotional effects of climbing thru leaking gasoline and the shattered back windshield of the wreckage of a flipped car on the interstate, to hold the head of the driver until the life flight helicopter gets there, only to have him die in your hands? You are the last person they see, their last hope, and the fin
al messenger to their family: Tell them I love them, they always say in their last breath on this earth.
People trying to comfort the survivors of a loved one who has been terminally ill for a long period of time when they die say, “Well, at least you were prepared. You knew it was coming.” That’s crap. One is never prepared for the shock and grief of real trauma. You may be aware it’s coming, that it will happen, but when the trauma materializes, it brings all of its baggage with it. Every time. Death takes something out of a survivor, even if they aren’t a loved one. Seeing the life force leave someone’s body changes you.
It had definitely changed Ketchum.
Such was the life of a cop. And a homicide detective’s life was that multiplied by one hundred, because the expected unexpected was exponentially more disturbing. Like getting the call to come inspect a severed head in a candy barrel on a Mardi Gras float. How did one prepare for that?
Ketchum’s call to Heckle had not been returned by the time he caught the flight to Nashville. He would arrive at the airport around three o’clock and planned to go directly to Metro PD from there.
Heckle had, as usual, ignored his telephone messages. He was too busy shooting the shit with the narcotics guys. They had the best stories and the inside scoop on the grimy underbelly of the city.
Cafton and Leigh had decided to go to her farm to grab some clothes for her, feed the barn cats, and return to Cafton’s by four o’clock for Sophie’s usual feeding time.
Chad was down and bound, headed toward Nashville. He had decided to go to Cafton’s home, break in, and get the jump on him to complete his revenge. If he wasn’t going to have a record out by Merriepennie Music, then, by God, no one was.