by Paul Sating
Janis snagged the recorder from the middle console to capture notes before she forgot. "I lied to Angelique," she started. "These murders, the city isn't ready for them. Memphis is, well, it's a city in the deep south with high poverty and crime rates. I'll give you two guesses what that means in terms of our attitude towards violence, and the first one doesn't count. We're a violent city, depressingly violent. Becoming numb to people killing other people if we aren't there already.
"This Lacey Nichols case will scare the shit out of people when news comes out because, from the outside–looking–in, she wasn't someone you'd expect to wind up on the wrong side of a crime. She didn't fit any profiles. There wasn't even an abusive ex-husband in the picture to pin it on. Nothing anyone can point at and say 'ah, that's why he killed her.' Without definitive answers, no one will have the ability to find comfort in linking her death to a rational explanation. That's was going to scare them."
Janis stopped the recorder as she pulled up into the driveway, not bothering to park under the overhang. She wondered if Marshall would let her record their meeting. It would be risky, even posing the question would. She could record it without his knowledge, but she respected him too much for that.
That didn't override her goal to get something she could use. One way or another, Janis was determined to do just that.
***
The room was quiet.
It always was.
Even though Janis was used to silence, it remained one of her staunchest enemies because it was in that void of sound that she usually did something regrettable in order to fill it. Regret came in the form of men. Broken relationships, one-night stands, it didn't matter. Sometimes it was just nice to have another human being around even if everything about the relationship was unfulfilling and unrewarding. A hard cock did that, helped you forget your troubles, at least temporarily.
But today no one was here. The incessant ticking of the grandfather clock she'd picked up at an estate sale years ago, the only sound filling the small rambler. Back then, Janis thought it was a good idea, the rhythmic ticking was therapeutic and helped calm her mania when it made an intrusive appearance. The clocks persistent presence also filled the void of silence when men weren't around to do that. But today, she'd rather put her fist through the glass door than listen to one more tick. Not the fault of the clock because she was already on edge, but fortune still smiled, and it would survive another day.
The conversation with Marshall didn't go as planned. It wasn't one of her proudest moments.
Janis fingered the familiar chip in the table that had become her focal point in the past few days, expanding it millimeter by millimeter with her thick nail.
She didn't mean or even want to record their meeting. She didn't ask him if he'd be okay with her doing so, even though she'd planned to. Once he started talking about the murders, she learned what authorities had and the leads they were following, her denial weakened. At some point soon people in Memphis deserved to know, and she deserved to be the one to tell them. No one else.
The city would be rocked.
At that determined conclusion, Janis had reached into her purse, claiming she needed to apply lip balm, and covertly switched on the recorder.
It now stood on-end in the middle of the small table, facing her as if it had a life and mind of its own, daring her to either listen to the recording again or erase it forever.
Janis reached out, her thumb hovering over the sideways triangle PLAY button. A brief pause, and then she pressed it. The cramped kitchen filled with the metallic tones from tonight's conversation.
"Really?" Janis had said.
"I'm not kidding." Marshall's voice made Janis' tingle reemerge. "You know, I've been working homicide for ten years and I've never seen anything like this. I can't put words to what those scenes looked like."
"You need to try or I won't get much of a story out of this."
"Yeah, yeah," Marshall sounded tired. "I see you haven't changed since your television days."
Standing in her kitchen now, Janis swayed at the words being replayed. Marshall did remember her! She couldn't throttle the burgeoning excitement coming from deep inside, from places she shouldn't be feeling anything right now.
"You say that like it's a bad thing? Is it?" she'd asked.
"Not at all," Marshall had exclaimed. "You're stunning—uh, sorry. Oh Jesus, not cool. I'm sorry."
Janis pressed STOP and rewound the audio, listening to that comment another three times before moving on. The small kitchen had suddenly warmed.
"Oh my God," she hated the sound of her school girl giggle. "I thought you were talking about my bluntness. I am, uh, thanks?"
Marshall's embarrassment drifted through the recording. "Awkward, right? I didn't mean—just—anyway, the—"
"We were talking about the murders."
"No easy way to subtly transition, huh?" There was a moment of silence, complemented by the background noise of a barista making overpriced drinks. When she closed her eyes, it almost felt like she was back there with him again. "This shit is twisted, Janis. I can't tell you how many murder victims I've seen, and I've never seen anything like the condition of these two women. It takes a special kind of monster to do that to another human. Have you seen the pictures?"
She told him that she had. Every disturbing image.
"There is savagery and then there's what happened to those two," Marshall had continued. "I've seen all sorts of shit. Bad drug deals. Home invasions. Jealous boyfriends or husbands, sometimes both. Even a few ladies who snapped. The intimate partner murders? They're the worst, let me tell you. But these two? What happened to them, that's beyond brutal, beyond savage. A predatory animal wouldn't do what someone in this city did!"
Even listening back now, almost two hours later, his passion was addicting.
"Am I picking up hints there are some commonalities between the cases?" She had asked him.
"Yes, but don't put that in anything yet. We're not ready for that information to get out."
"Fair enough. A single suspect?"
"Don't know yet," Marshall had admitted carefully.
"Who is she? The second victim?"
Janis was proud of her determined focus. The opportunity arose, and she seized it, like she used to, before the men in Memphis' media circles pushed her to the margins.
"Her name is Margaret Chapman," Marshall had answered. "Thirty-six-year-old mother of three. Fitness nut. Owns, owned, a gym in Midtown. Out on Poplar Avenue. Did pretty well for herself."
"Married?"
"Divorced. Back in 2011. A minister."
"Is he a suspect? Person of interest?" Janis had asked.
"We're watching him, but I'm not sure," Marshall paused. "There's a lot we can't be sure of right now. Let's just say he's not going anywhere without having a small group of his closest law-enforcement friends following."
"And the women, what are the commonalities?"
"I've got to be careful, Janis."
"Come on, Marshall. Don't bust my balls. What can you give me?"
"Goddamn, you're dogged," Marshall had responded. "Like I said; both brutal. How else can you categorize two mothers in their thirties who were murdered for no apparent reason? Both of them beaten severely before being carved up like that."
"Their uteruses?"
There was a pause before Marshall answered. "Yeah, that's the really fucked up part. Who does that? What kind of animal tears a woman's uterus out? How do we even begin to find a person who would do that?"
"You're the pro, you tell me."
"No clue."
"The uterus removal, is that the reason you think it's the same person?"
"In large part, yeah," Marshall had answered. "You don't see stuff like that every day. You don't see stuff like this ever."
"Could've been a copy–cat though, right?"
"Doubtful. There's been no leaks."
Janis could hear herself sigh in the recording. She imagined how it
sounded to Marshall if it was loud enough to be picked up by the small microphone. "Out with it, Marshall. Come on. Monica said you'd work with me on this and you're holding back. I can tell."
"I'm holding back because I don't know you that well and it's been a long time since we talked or worked together on anything. And that last story wasn't anything like this. I'm trying to be cautious," Marshall had responded. "There's more to this and, dammit, it's just fucked."
"I can handle it. Have a little faith in me. I promise I won't flip out. What is it? What happened to these women?"
This was it, this was the angle he was about to admit to. Marshall was about to tell her the information she needed to push her angle. "It's all preliminary," Marshall had warned. "We aren't sure yet, okay? But when their uteruses were removed, we think they were still alive."
9
The high Memphis sun obliterated all shadows, leaving no room to operate.
But now wasn't the time to strike again.
Three, too soon.
Too much attention on the women, too many moving parts to coordinate.
So many people paying attention.
That was the precariousness of the situation.
The unimaginable conflict between fulfilling destiny, cementing legacy, and denying reckless urges.
There was time still.
And another victim awaited.
When the shadows came again, darkness descending on an unsuspecting third.
10
Another morning, another heat-induced suffocation under a thin sheet. A few bicycle kicks later and Janis was free. In this part of the world the sun acted like an unwelcome next-door neighbor. Days weren't supposed to start in a clammy sweat. Yet, each and every day was, and every day she woke up grumpy. With an unsteady employment history and a lack of financial fidelity, cranking air conditioning was restricted to the worst time of the worst days. As much as her skin pleaded to be cooled, mornings weren't those. She would suffer until the car's AC provided a reprieve.
A glance at the alarm clock displayed she was already behind getting a start on her day. It didn't matter; a late start was more than a fair trade for what she got out of last night.
Marshall had told her more than she imagined he ever would. Flirting was a skill that required little practice for her while others couldn't flirt into an arranged marriage. And last night that natural skill paid huge dividends. Men got loose with their words and behaviors when a woman knew how to bat her eyes at the right moment or light touch an arm in just the right way. No guilt. Just part of the game. This was her career, and the story was an exclusive. She had goals and ambitions, and a need for air-conditioning in the morning, and this story would be the catalyst to that end.
Flirting also kept Marshall distracted from the fact that she was recording the conversation. He might find out at some point if she wasn't careful, but that wouldn't matter if everything went to plan.
His distraction also led him to sharing something she hadn't been expecting; the name and contact information of the witness, the jogger who'd stumbled across the gruesome scene of what remained of Memphis' latest murder victim.
One Hector Ramirez was about to get a phone call he probably didn't want and definitely wasn't expecting. First, a shower, then she needed to find out exactly what this witness found when he tripped across Margaret Chapman.
The thick morning air did nothing to cool her naked body, now exposed fully to her empty apartment.
It was time to get to work.
***
Chicago Avenue ended in a disfigured circle of gravel just underneath the Highway 14 bridge and a few hundred yards short of where Nonconnah Creek bent away from Memphis. Being out here felt like being on the edge of desolation, tucked right against a city's border, a dichotomy of the senses. The dehydrated bed of the creek and thick tree coverage made this part of south Memphis feel detached from the city where no homes and not a single business dared lay claim. Nothing but a gravel road, a temperamental creek, and the constant rumble of vehicles crossing the bridge.
This part of Memphis also happened to be the home of Margaret Chapman's eternal rest.
And it was where Janis was meeting Hector Ramirez.
As soon as she showered, she called him and was surprised at how easily he acquiesced to a firm–yet–friendly request to meet. Sitting on the shoulder of the gravel road, she waited, not sweating nearly as badly as in her apartment, but only because paying for gas to cool the car was a hell of a lot cheaper than paying to cool a home. Fifteen minutes later, a late model Mazda crawled toward the end of the circle, coming back around again. By that time, Janis had stepped into the heat of the day and waved the driver down, hoping it actually was Hector. The man behind the wheel smiled meekly and cracked his window.
"Hi, Hector?" He nodded and waved again. It was a non–threatening and adorable gesture. "I'm Janis Herring from The Memphis Times."
"Oh, okay," the man in the car said, shutting off the vehicle and getting out. He was tall, with a light brown complexion, and thin. His black hair was thicker than a mysterious novel plot. They shook hands.
"Thanks for meeting up with me," Janis said behind a practiced smile. "I appreciate you coming out on such short notice."
Hector shuffled from foot to foot. "You're welcome," he answered. "I don't have a lot of time. Can we make this quick?"
Janis nodded, pulling the recorder out of her pocket, flicking it to record. "Don't need much. You still okay with me recording this? I'd rather have a conversation with you then miss half of what you say because I'm jotting down notes."
"That's okay, I guess."
"Thanks. So, what happened yesterday? Before you found the body?"
"I—um—what do you mean?"
Janis shook her head. "Sorry, that was abrupt. Can you tell me about everything? What led up to your discovery? What were you doing? What was going on? Who was around? Stuff like that."
Hector glanced off toward the river as if he expected to see the killer stroll up from the bank at any second. His words were as tentative as his gesticulations. "I was just running. I run almost every day. Training for a half marathon. My first."
"Congratulations; you'll enjoy it."
"You've done one?"
Janis nodded, thinking of the highs she got from training. "I do a few a year. Running, weights, yoga; I love it all. My friends always say that if you can't find me, just go to the closest gym. I'll be there."
"That's cool," Hector said, sounding as if he couldn't care less about her passion for exercise. "I'm excited for it. So, I- was on a run, usually go in the morning before the traffic builds up."
"Smart. It's dangerous to be doing any surface running with cars filling the streets," Janis gave her warmest smile, trying to connect at least on that level, if nothing else. "People can't drive worth a damn. Though I don't imagine that's a problem over here. This is pretty off–the–path."
Again, a nervous laugh. "Yeah, my kid goes to Ford Road Elementary, and we live off West Mitchell, so I run the neighborhood before school starts. But I like being by the water. Helps me hit the zone quicker, you know? Once in a while I'll come around the rail yard and up to the creek. It's the quickest route from where we live and, on the days I'm feeling good, I'll head out to the Mississippi for a longer run."
"But you didn't yesterday?"
Hector's chest swelled as he drew breath. "No. I wanted to change up the routine. You know how that is. There are some trails on the east side of the bridge that I'll run from time to time and my knees are killing me, so I was planning on doing trails all week. Yesterday was supposed to be the start of that. Chicago Avenue is a nice cut through to the trails if I take the tracks across the creek. So that's what I was going to do. Then I ... I s-s-saw ... when I saw the—"
Janis stopped herself from reaching out. The last thing she wanted was to freak him out and blow the chance at getting exclusive insight no one else in the city's media had. "It's okay, Mr. Ramirez.
It's difficult, I know. You don't need to say it."
Hector finally met her gaze. It was the strongest he looked in their entire conversation. "You've seen a dead body?"
She tried to soften her voice. Only his reaction would let her know if she'd succeeded or not. "Yes, I have. A few times. Processing it can be difficult."
"I can't sleep," Hector ran a hand through his thick, black hair. "Can't focus. And the police, they want to talk to me again and my boss got upset because I was pulled off the job for so long. The tension, man, him being pissed was actually a break because I just had to stress about him stressing, if that makes sense. At least for that bit I didn't have that vision of her body in my damn head. But when I got home, it was horrible. Everything was quiet, my wife didn't know what to say, so she just made idle chatter and—and—my Lord, she was annoying." His laugh was weak, unconvinced by his lugubrious statement.
Janis reciprocated, hers as fake as his was meek.
To his credit, Hector kept the conversation moving, unaware or unwilling to recognize her fabricated gesture. "At least she kept the kids away. I didn't want to them to see me like that. Wasn't right, you know? I went to bed when everyone else did because the house was too quiet. From too noisy to too quiet in an instant. Without the distraction of my family all I could think about and see was that poor woman." The hand went back to his hair again. When he spoke next his words were constricted. "Every time I close my damn eyes I see her laying there, looking broken. Her eyes staring up at the sky, man. Her—her stomach." Hector said the word like it was foreign to him. "Ms. Herring, that was someone's loved one. Someone's daughter! I have two myself. I don't understand how someone could do that, do you?"