A Blade Away

by Jack Wallen

  Lakmé managed to pry himself from the mirror and step into the shower. The blood of Jean Ann had dried on his hands and arms and would take a while to scrub off. The water was scalding, just as he preferred. As the man watched the red rain pour down in the shower, he became fully aroused and began to pleasure himself. As he gently stroked his manhood, his thoughts strayed back to the vision of Jean Ann prone on the bed. The body was naked and still male. Lakmé saw himself begin to take the bound man’s erect penis into his mouth. He was purposefully choking himself, trying to suffocate on the hard flesh.

  Lakmé looked up, and instead of seeing Jean Ann’s gentle face, he saw his dead father’s face, the man who had destroyed his childhood and his mother. His heart began to pound. The heartbreak speed overtook his own pleasuring, and each stroke became more violent than the previous. He was pounding himself with his sledge-hammer fist. Totally unaware of the damage being inflicted, the raging man continued to pulverize himself as the scene in his mind played out.

  In his impassioned imagination, Lakmé was still choking himself on the cock, only now it belonged to his father. Lakmé bit down hard, hoping to ruin the man that had ruined his life. He chewed through muscle and sinew. Blood poured. Blood overflowed. He was drinking blood and semen and piss as his father’s screams cried out for the world to save him. There would be no salvation for him. Not this time.

  The man collapsed in the steaming shower. He was numb. He withdrew his hand and noticed a small amount of blood. He had made a pulp of his own testicles. They would probably never function again. But he didn’t care. He had the pleasure of destroying the man who had raped him. He had taken away the very thing the man had used to rip away a child’s innocence.

  He lay back in the tub. The water was washing away his sins. Lakmé knew he had to get up and stop the bleeding, but for now, he just wanted to relish the warmth of the shower and the thrill of the fantasy.

  THIRTY-THREE

  After retrieving the list of Southern Belles from my office, Skip and I rushed down to the lab to use the ultraviolet lamp on the bloodstained clue. I put on gloves and carefully pulled the scrap of paper from the package. I placed the scrap on a holding tray.

  With the UV lamp held over the tray, I was able to easily make out the letters on the paper:

  dreams. ar you certain the prize is worth?

  I ran down the list, first checking for any name starting with the misspelling, ar. I came up with one — Arlene Venus. No match in the clue.

  I continued to scan the list and couldn’t come up with a match. Names starting with D — Daphne Thomas, Didi Torvald, Dolly Roxanne. Nothing.

  My eyes were crossing. It was well after midnight, and I just couldn’t manage a moment of concentration. I looked over at Skip, who had somehow managed to remain quiet the entire time. My head must have been made of glass because he read my mind as if it were open to the world.

  “Give it up for the night. He just made this attempt, he’s not going to try another tonight. I figure we have at least one day. We’ll come in bright and early tomorrow and figure this one out.” He smiled and pulled me to him in a tight embrace.

  “Thank you, Skip. I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.” My breath escaped with the words.

  “Well, first of all, you’d be one lonely fag hag.” We both laughed. It felt so good to laugh after the day we had both had. “Now, bag it and get your skinny ass home.”

  We sealed up the evidence, locked it in a cabinet, and left the lab. Skip walked me to my car to make sure I was okay to make the drive home. I assured him I was fine and wouldn’t need his escort.

  Eventually I made it home. Raja Kitty greeted me at the door with an obvious It’s about time you got home to feed me meow. I picked her up, scooped out her measured cup of kibble, and set her down so she could enjoy a very late dinner.

  Then I slowly crawled into bed. I couldn’t remember my bed ever feeling so good. The sheets were cool, the pillow was soft, and before the comfort of the temperature could register, I was asleep.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The morning sun greeted me like a million needles sticking in my eyes. I wanted to pull the covers over my head and disappear for a long day of silence. My cell phone was ringing, and Raja Kitty was purring at my head.

  My phone wouldn’t let me ignore its cry. I answered it and heard Skip’s voice on the other end.

  “Good morning, princess! I have good news for you, but I think I’d rather have you here in the War Room so you can hear it in person. Are you with me?” Skip teased.

  “Of course. I’m on my way.” I hung up and rushed around trying to gather myself together to begin the day.

  I hated beginning the day without breakfast, so I stopped by Nancy’s Bagels for a spinach-feta bagel and a cup of their best eye-opener. It wasn’t Fog of War, but it would do.

  As I was leaving the shop, I noticed a newspaper stand. There was a total absence of last night’s drama on the front page of the Courier-Journal. “Thank God,” I whispered to myself. Without the media splattering the public with the latest, the chief couldn’t kick my ass across my office again. Everything needed to remain hush-hush until I at least had some better leads.

  I drove to the precinct and ran straight to the War Room. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the bagel as I ran. When I arrived, Skip and Craig Wayne were sitting at the table sharing a package of chocolate donuts. “Nice breakfast, Skip. What do you have for me?” I shot straight to the point.

  “I have one choccy donut for you, if you like.” Skip said, with chocolate hanging for dear life from his top lip.

  I turned the donut down with a grimace. Skip shrugged and shoved it in his mouth. With his maw still full of his favorite waxy snack item, he continued, “First, I have word that your favorite computer boy, Jason, has decoded the latest clue.” His grin was wide and spotted with cheap chocolate.

  “How? And how did he get the latest fragment?” I was so taken aback that I didn’t even notice Jason wander into the room.

  “It was a simple program I threw together last night,” Jason said as he came in. I turned and saw that he had his own breakfast of champions—a bag of Doritos and a Mountain Dew. “I got the frag this morning from Skip. I knew that basically you had a string of random characters and from the random string, read from left to right, names could be pulled. So it was just a matter of hacking together some code and running the string through the program.” His smile made Skip’s chocolate-chip grin look more like a frown.

  “And the winner is?” Skip threw his arms up with a little more flair than I presumed he had intended. He quickly jerked them down and blushed.

  “Mary Capri.” Jason punctuated the name with a gulp of Dew.

  “Has anyone contacted him?”

  “Not yet, dollface. We figured we’d let you do the honors. Well, and you had the phone list locked in your office.” Skip winked.

  I turned to leave. I wanted to get in touch with this Mary Capri as fast as possible. Skip stopped me.

  “There’s more good news. Jean Ann made it through the night and should be able to talk today. I cleared it with the doctor.” I turned and with a sigh of relief I hadn’t realized I was keeping back, thanked Skip. “I owe you big, Skip.” Skip, of course, didn’t object.

  Back in my own office, I shut the door and collected my thoughts and the list of names from the Southern Belles group. Mary Capri’s name was right there, along with a phone number. I picked up my phone and dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered. Talk about awkward situations. This woman was more than likely Mary Capri’s wife, but I had no idea if she knew, or approved, of his other persona. I didn’t want to break any taboo among this group we were trying to protect, and I certainly wasn’t in the business of breaking up marriages.

  I took a breath and then spoke. “This is Detective Jamie Davenport. Is your husband available?” I was praying the nervousness wouldn’t shine through.

  “Has something happe
ned? Is something wrong?” The woman sounded edgy.

  “No ma’am. I just need to speak with your husband.” There was a long moment of silence.

  “Okay, I’ll get him for you.” She pulled away from the phone and yelled the name Evan. I had a first name—a real name. After a moment, the man came on the phone.

  “This is Detective Jamie Davenport. We met a couple of nights ago at…” I paused. Again, I was too nervous to say the words. I had no idea I had become this gun shy.

  “Yes, Detective, I remember.” Thank God for small miracles. “Is anything wrong?” I could hear nervousness in his voice.

  “I don’t want to alarm you, but I believe you might be the next target.” I braced myself for an outburst. When none came, I continued, “I want to place you under police protection. I want someone watching you at all times, and I want you to be very careful where you go and what you do.” Again, no response. “Are you there?”

  “Yes. Sorry. What makes you think I’m next, Detective?” I knew there could as easily be doubt as fear.

  “We believe clues are being left behind at the scene indicating who the next victim will be.” I could almost hear the fear welling in Evan’s heart.

  “Could I ask that you be the one on guard, Detective Davenport? You know about my little secret, and I’d rather not have anyone else know.” An innocent request.

  “Of course. My partner and I will arrive near your house after one quick stop if you will supply the address.”

  After Evan gave me the location of his house, I grabbed Skip, and we headed to the car.

  “The first thing we do is swing by the hospital. I want to see if Jean Ann can remember anything about the killer. Then, we’re going to do a good ol’-fashion stakeout at Mary Capri’s house.”

  Skip squealed with delight. “Oh, goodie! A stakeout! I haven’t staked out in years.” He paused for a moment. “Would it be staked out? Or would it be stake outted? Wow — stumped by the out. Glad that didn’t happen when I realized I was gay or I’d be shackin’ up with some nasty ol’ woman!” He said the last word with distaste.

  I patted him on the knee. “Don’t worry, Skippina. There was no way you were going to be kept in that closet of yours.”

  “I don’t think I appreciate the implication of that statement.” Skip huffed and stamped his foot like a little girl.

  “Oh honey, it wasn’t implication. It was fact.” My tone would have been heard as patronizing with anyone else. With Skip, it was just fun.

  “Oh, why do you always get to be the one who’s right?” Skip smiled.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Lakmé had fallen asleep in the shower. The hot water had turned cold and woke him up with a shock. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened. But when he saw his bloodstained shirt he remembered the previous night’s successful procedure. He was filled with triumph and, for the first time, longed for his next patient.

  Mary Capri.

  The name was perfectly suited for the man who would soon become the woman. He was petite, wore the clothing well, and had the right shroud of mystery surrounding him. He would be the perfect specimen—a masterpiece.

  He normally waited a few days to allow the previous patient to garner the limelight from her transformation, to let her be the queen for a day. But this time he was too excited, too pumped and ready for another. The SRS was becoming like a drug to him. He wanted more and more and was no longer sated with his usual fix.

  Mary Capri couldn’t wait. Forgoing his usual patient studies and stalking, he decided to pack up and make his move. His bag was still untouched from the night before. He had to replenish his supply of Xylazine and sutures, as well as pick out suitable ‘material’ for the creation of Mary’s breasts, but that would only take a moment. A brief moment in time was nothing considering the eternity of happiness that would befall little Mary Capri.

  Once packed, Lakmé shot out the door and hopped into his car. The light outside was far brighter than he expected. He so rarely ventured out during the day, and without sunglasses, he felt as if he’d rather be blind. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for protection, inadvertently dropping his bag to the ground. When the bag hit, it exploded, sending its contents spewing randomly onto the ground. He panicked and dropped to his hands and knees to pick up the bits and pieces.

  “Do you need some help?” The hurried man was startled by the female voice. A lady reached down to assist him. He grabbed her arm a little too violently and glared at her. When the lady attempted to pull away, she found herself struggling against the man’s grip. Lakmé refused to let go.

  “Gods do not need the help of mortals,” he said, as he squeezed her arm tighter. She cried out in pain, and then he released her. The woman jerked away violently, tossed a few choice profanities his way and ran off.

  How could she just run off like that when she was in the presence of something she might not ever touch again? His eyes were fixated on her shrinking form as she ran down the street. His brain was firing like heat lightning, small bursts of thought-like flashes which nearly rocked him off his feet.

  The longer he strayed from his task, the worse his mind would get. He had to remain focused, or he’d be causing himself life-threatening pain just to keep his head from splitting in two.

  Lakmé finished picking up his tools and placing them back in the bag. He double- checked to make sure nothing had been left behind and then stood to go.

  The old, brown Toyota Supra turned over and sputtered to life with a choke and cough. His destination was Seventh and St. Catherine. That was an area known as Old Louisville and was one of his favorite haunts. Many of the transgendered folks resided in that area of town. Maybe it was because it was so close to Club Connect. Maybe it was because it was an old neighborhood that just didn’t really give a damn who or what you were anymore. Old Louisville had seen it all. Old Louisville had been home to it all.

  Lakmé slowly made his way from the west side of town, a drive that would take about fifteen to twenty minutes. He wasn’t sure if Mary Capri would be home, but he could at least get into the house and set up shop so the procedure could begin as soon as Mary came home.

  At the thought of another successful procedure, Lakmé’s heart began to thump faster in his chest, threatening to break through bone and muscle. He thrived on the feeling, loving the idea that his heart could labor hard enough that it could simply stop, out of breath, out of time, out of energy. But that wouldn’t happen yet. Lakmé would not expire before his work was complete, and there were at least fifteen more men to transform before his duty was done.

  Hard, but fulfilling work.

  He pushed play on the stereo in the car and Coal Chamber’s Here We Go belted out of the speakers. The words made him think of the poor women trapped in men’s bodies. “Trap, scream trap, these broken wings I’ll wrap.” He tried screaming along with the music but the pressure in his head wouldn’t allow it. So he just drove and listened carefully.

  THIRTY-SIX

  We arrived at the corner of Seventh and St. Catherine at around eleven-thirty. It was a bright, brisk day. The old section of Louisville was not too busy to provide us with the perfect parking spot to allow a good line of sight to Mary Capri’s, a.k.a Evan Caprini, front door.

  I picked up my cell and called the number Evan had given me. Fortunately, he answered. We weren’t too late. Of course, I didn’t think the killer would strike in broad daylight, anyway.

  “Evan, this is Detective Davenport. My partner and I are practically on your front doorstep. No one will enter or exit your house without us seeing.” I spoke in a friendly tone to put him at ease.

  “Thank you, Officer. I’m at work right now and should be arriving around noon for lunch.” There was an odd air of excitement in his voice.

  “How will we recognize you, Evan?” I didn’t want to chance anything.

  “I’m wearing olive-green capri overalls, a tan cap-sleeved tee, and brown Mary Janes.” He describ
ed the perfect outfit for a weekend getaway. Comfy and flirty.

  “We’ll be looking for you.” We hung up, and I looked at Skip. “Some of these men have better fashion sense than I do.”

  Skip smiled. “Hon, for some of these men, fashion’s the only thing they got goin’ for ‘em. Clothing is their life. It’s kinda sad to know that they may never know the love of another because of their needs. It reminds me so much of the ‘80s when gays were collectively afraid to come out of their closet for fear that they’d be stoned to death with every Village People album available. Y-M-C-A!” Skip did a very strange dance in his seat as if he were doing the YMCA dance but trying to dodge the invisible incoming LPs.

  I looked at Skip with a snapshot glance. I wanted to record this moment so that I could recall it when I needed to remember what was so wonderful about life—about people. “God, Skip, you really get me through,” was the only way I could verbalize my feelings.

  Skip smiled a warm, wonderful smile.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Skip gasped as wide-eyed as humanly possible. He was staring out the windshield. I assumed that he had seen a suspect. But instead, he was looking across the street at a tall, very pretty, bean-pole of a man in too-short shorts and a wife-beater tee.

  “What is it?” I asked, afraid of the reply.

  “That man.” He pointed to the Daisy Duke wannabe. “I gave him my phone number a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And?” I didn’t get the gasp.

  “He never called! I was totally humiliated! I’ve never not been called. He was my first rejection,” Skip said, as he ducked below the dash. I couldn’t believe what he was doing.