The Coworker: The First Nate Castle

by Vernon Rush

  Nate drove Jack to Jerry's to pick up his car. While they were driving, Daria called.

  "I am so sorry I woke you," Nate apologized. "I will call you tomorrow. You can give me shit all you want in the light of day."

  Jack Wilcox unwedged his beefy frame from Nate's passenger seat. "So, this Daria, is she your girl?"

  "No. Just my very good friend. My sidekick in this investigation. You writing a book?" Nate inquired.

  "Just keeping tabs," Jack replied. He got in his car and Nate followed him home.

  CHAPTER 9

  24 Hours A Dead Body -Rage.

  Besides mediocrity, nothing made him angrier than to be forced off his design. To have the actions of others affect him so. He liked his life of leisure, in which he could hunt as he chose, as he planned. It was one thing to hunt for passion. For sport. For the art of it. This was way too much like work. This was like being asked, as a virtuoso violinist, to play stupid shit on the street corner for coin. It was beneath him. This murder might just cause more anxiety than it resolved. He would do it—of course he would. And he would be better at it than any member of the pedestrian population in which he immersed himself. But there would be a big price tag for those who put him in this position. Consequences. And those he would definitely take his time perfecting.

  Besides his own utter brilliance and all-around superiority, the fact that he made Emily Fabian as nervous as a cat worked in his favor. Once the smoke of abject rage had rescinded some, he realized he was probably going to enjoy this after all. Though the decision to kill her had been made hastily and he would have to act quickly, there was absolutely no reason he couldn't take a moment and savor her fear, just a little bit.

  He'd always had his eye on her and lately more so, just as matter of course. He tracked her from the office to the library to the meeting. The way the two of them had flown out of there, he knew the Smart One had shone the light on a path that would bring the world closer to him. Maybe he would be discovered, maybe he would not—but if putting out Emily Fabian's lights meant that she would be one less lantern that could be used to expose him, it had to be done.

  Emily Fabian was a single woman who was slightly panicked that she had no prospects for marriage or even a serious relationship. The carefulness of her hair and clothes screamed that. Some good-looking women dressed well because they loved themselves, but others made sure their appearance was impeccable because they wanted someone to love them. Emily Fabian was the latter. She was pushing forty and she had invested all she was able to be as stunning as possible at any given moment. He would make that lack of self-assurance work in his favor.

  The house with the white picket fence that she lived in was one of those jobs that was split up into suites. It must be a tough pill to swallow, he mocked her in his head. Or was he saying that out loud? He never knew, nor did he care. Once he was close enough, it was lights out for whomever, anyway. Because he was that good. The only face-saving thing about where Emily lived, he thought, was: What single person in Frederick didn't live in one of those? It would be a tough venue to do his work, but he sort of knew the drill. He could get around in her place with no problem after all.

  He wore a suit with an overcoat. The great facility of an overcoat was that he was able to suspend an arsenal of linear weapons and move about without those weapons being detected. He knew they were there. Chain was in his pocket, so he could always pet it. But sewn for easy access was a hatchet and a butcher knife. He had been practicing taking apart whole chickens from the grocery store via a tutorial on the internet, in case he had to dismember. He had never gone there before, but it interested him. For this occasion, he wore his hair slicked back and topped with a knit cap.

  He approached the front door of Emily's place, tried the knob, which he chanced would be opened; some of them were because they led to a common area and some of them didn't because, for security reasons—or insecurity reasons, really—they required a key for entrance. He chided himself for not knowing which unit was hers. He didn't know how many people were home. Luck and brutality would be the way this one would be played.

  Zenning it, assuming the mindset of casual, he glided throughout the house, trying doors and checking rooms. No deadbolts on them, which was a grave oversight. He loved the phrase 'grave oversight.' It was kind of a play on words. As quiet as he could be, he slipped a card between the door and jamb to see if he could pop the locks on any of the doors.

  And that was how he was able to slip into the room he knew to be Emily's and rescind into her closet to wait. From this position, through a slightly cracked door, he was able to study her room. It was tediously tidy, impeccably placed. It was rather insipid, he thought. Just like a bedroom of a teen not able to have her own space yet. What a pansy Emily Fabian was, he thought. By goodness grace, it bothered him so. The room, he concluded, was a symbol of Emily's lack of achievement. Knowing people the way he did, knowing what he knew of Emily, he knew the room probably screamed 'loser' to Emily every time she walked into it. It was screaming 'loser' to him right now. He could hear his own voice, blaring loud, like the call of a referee. Loser! He took delight in the hope that every time she walked into the room, it made her face the end of the road. If he was right and she felt that way, Emily was correct. This room literally meant her life was over, for it would also be the place where she would die.

  * * *

  It did not bother him that Emily was a fighter. He was never frightened that the way he projected a kill would go would not be the way it went at all and he would be caught. He could envision the whole kill, see it, be it, and it was. The ire that her resistance raised only served him to expedite matters and get her done. She kept saying she knew him, she knew him, and why was he doing this? Like he had time to break it all down into small stupid words. What was really beautiful about the whole thing was: Here they were in a house that served as a home for many in a neighborhood among many homes and—

  No

  one

  came

  to

  her

  aid.

  One of his greatest tools in all of this was banking on no one in this world caring. How well did he know that? If he was really daring, he could just let her scream. Instead, he placed a pillow over her face to press her down and hacked off that annoyingly perfect little television housewife hair. She shrieked alright. She made a mess. But if no one had paid attention to him before, no one would pay attention to him now. He would be fine. It was going to be okay.

  A really cool chunk of Emily’s hair fell away from her head in particularly artful way. He was good at this immediately. He put the hair in his pocket, re-attached his tools, and waited for dark to leave the house.

  * * *

  Despite their late night, Jack Wilcox picked up Nate Castle at the crack of dawn for their twelve-step meeting. The fact that Jack was able to rouse despite his slip-up the night before did not speak to his level of intoxication and Nate knew that. Drunks were one extreme or the other; they either had no tolerance or a boundless one. But if Jack was game to get back on the wagon after he drank, Nate was there for him. Lots of things could happen accident-wise in the short distance and slow speed between his place and the meeting, but Nate decided he was willing to take that chance and trust in Jack.

  Except that when he awoke, it was pouring. Hard. Nate had doubts. The last time it had rained that hard in Frederick, a young woman had been murdered.

  He hunched under a big black umbrella as Jack pulled up. Jack drove a car that fell into Nate’s two categories of detective cars. Jack drove a muscle car. It was not the same car that Jack had pulled up in that day at the crime scene. This was a car over which someone placed a cover when it rested safely in the garage.

  "Like it?" Jack smiled as he asked about the car. "And you don't have to dislocate any joints to get in."

  “My goodness. Better not let Bill Merit see you in this. He is liable to encourage your wife to take half,” Nate teased.

&n
bsp; “And that is what she will get if she tries. I will cut this thing in two before I left anyone else have all of it.”

  “You look remarkably well for someone who drank last night,” Nate said.

  “I feel okay. I will hit a wall soon enough. Hop in.”

  They hit the Creamery after the meeting. They both thought it best that Jack not reveal his slip-up at the meeting while the Coworker Murders investigation was ongoing. Even though it was an anonymous program, the gossip mice had a nasty way of taking information from the rooms and spreading it around the town. Not unlike Nate's first meeting of now a few weeks back, the meeting had taken the stuffing out of Jack and they both were in need of some breakfast and some iced water.

  "Why is it," Jack asked, as they slid into a maple-benched booth, "that you can be so freaking thirsty and bloated at the same time, so that your body can only tolerate so much fluid at once? My mouth is so many shriveled up fingers and toes, but my gut is swollen."

  "You have been studying serial killers too much. You’re starting to sound like one, with the body parts. Patience, detective, patience," Nate counseled. "Speaking of the latest crime, what is on deck now after this?"

  "I am going to go over to the placement agency and talk to that Emily chick. Then I have to interview Stacy Gottsponer’s boyfriend."

  "What is her name?" Nate asked rhetorically.

  Jack smiled. "I know. We are all going to hell because we have to fight not to mock a dead girl's name. You know you have your chart and we have ours and all, but I don't need a diagram to observe one glaring commonality in all these dead girls is they were hellishly boring. I mean dull."

  "Push your buttons do they, detective?" Nate asked.

  "Don't they you?" Jack asked.

  In Nate’s estimate, Jack didn't look like it would take too much to bother him. "Not really," he answered, mulling the menu as if he didn't know what he wanted. The Creamery club sandwich, fries, and a glass of unsweetened tea. It was nice not to ingest a steady diet of sugar just so he could function. He now had more sobriety than Jack did and somehow that demarcated his evolution. He took a moment and felt better. "What's your poison?" he inquired.

  "I am not sure. It all looks like it would be good but my mind and my stomach are not in accord, if you know what I mean. I am so pissed I blew it all like that." Jack shook his head.

  "Can't undo it," said Nate. "Just move forward. Focus on what's in front of you."

  "I usually have Chinese food the morning after. It is my go-to hangover cure,” said Jack.

  "Ah," Nate smiled. "I don't think The Wok is open for breakfast." He folded up his menu and waved the waitress over to place his order.

  “I had eight years clean and sober and I let my temper get the best of me. God damn it,” Jack cursed.

  “I have been coming to the rooms forever. I never managed to put more than a couple of months together, really. Looking back, I thought I was this cool guy, but I had to be an asshole. We are assholes without the program and each other.” Nate realized he wasn't really talking to Jack but thinking out loud; figuring it out.

  After careful thought, Jack elected to order what Nate was having.

  "So," Nate began, "do you think it would be helpful to have a meeting with Dan Klein? Bring him up to speed? Is he a newbie on the force? I think you were, around five years ago, when the first two got hit. What's his story?"

  "He is just a body, but I swear he has a man crush on you," replied the detective, with a tone of disappointment. He was about to say more when Daria McCarroll whirred in, messenger bag strapped to her side.

  She was visibly agitated and looked as unwell as Jack Wilcox felt. "Oh my God, here you are," she said to Nate, without acknowledging that he was not alone.

  "Daria, if I didn't know you better, I would swear you needed a meeting. What is going on?" Nate said calmly. As she seated next to him, he could smell her. Her clothes were not fresh and they had the distinct redolence of body odor. Oil separated the strands of her hair at her temples and if he focused, he could see flakes of old eye make up on her skin. The fact that Jack was staring at her, while simultaneously surfing his phone, prompted Nate's manners. "Jack, this is Daria McCarroll, my very good friend. Jack—"

  Daria cut him off. "I have to go to the ladies' room," she announced. She rose, her messenger bag slung in front of her like an ambitious twin. Nate laughed but Daria was not amused. "What?" she snapped.

  "Do you shower with that thing on?" he teased. "Leave it here. I will keep it safe." Daria clearly did not want to leave it and if Nate was reading her correctly, he had put her on the spot. He knitted his brows. "Come, all of us could use some practice at trust."

  Daria slipped the strap off her shoulder. She made a face like he was the weird one. "Nathaniel, I trust you. I just am trying to figure out where you are coming from. I will be right back." That was more like it. That was more like his Daria.

  "You and she?" Jack asked.

  "No," Nate smiled. "I am only an occasionally sober man. I am not fit to be involved."

  "Not even friends with benefits?" he asked.

  "Are you asking if she is available?" Nate raised his brows.

  Jack made a face. "I am so not there yet. There is something off about her. Doesn't match the impression I got from you."

  "She has gotten herself worked up over the murders. I think I am going to set her down and suggest she go talk it over with a counselor or something. Maybe get a little Xanax."

  "That was good advice, until that last part." Jack's phone buzzed. He checked it and his face changed.

  "What?" Nate asked. He was without his notebook, he realized, as he hadn't driven. So he fished what he thought was a scrap piece of paper out of Daria's bag, and began making notes.

  "I have to go," Jack answered urgently. He jumped up to the counter and grabbed a To Go box. "It is going to be a long day/night. I have a feeling this is all I am going to eat." The waitress appeared at the table, urgent to assist. "Can I have another ice water to go?"

  "What's up?" Nate asked.

  "A body," Jack said quietly. "It's a coincidence. It doesn't seem to be related. Are you going to be able to get where you need to go? Can your friend give you a lift?"

  "Yeah," Nate said. "We will work it out. I've got breakfast. You can catch me next time."

  Daria returned as Jack left the restaurant and anxiously jerked her bag towards her to sit across from Nate. "Where's he off to?" she asked, drinking out of the remnants of Jack's water glass, much to Nate's confusion.

  "He was called away to work," Nate replied slowly. He put a quiet hand on Daria's. "Is there something I should know?"

  Daria took a deep breath. "I haven't slept in a couple of days. I can't get what's happening out of my head. I know we talked about it—that the chances of me being a victim are remote—but I do know I am not the only woman who feels this way. You ask that waitress and I guarantee you she is jumpy." She picked up a paper napkin that had not been used yet and wiped the film from her face. "Nate, I can't explain it. This has completely grabbed hold of me. Have you ever had a case of compulsive thinking? Where the thoughts just won't let you alone?"

  Nate nodded his head. "I am an alcoholic, Daria. You've seen me at my worst. It is all about compulsive thinking and behavior. Yes. I think what you need is to take a couple of days off and get right. Do you have any assignments going?"

  "No," Daria answered, in a voice that sounded more like her usual self. "Actually, I don't. I should go get myself to the Beacon in DC and veg out for a little while."

  "Now you're talking," he said. He folded up his notes and tucked them into his pants pocket. "Can you give me a lift back to my place so I can pick up my car? Jack picked me up but he got called to a case. He's a Frederick police detective," he answered studying her.

  Daria's face contorted as though she had bitten into something hot. "Why didn't you say so?" she demanded, and furiously began digging through her messenger bag. "Did he have ac
cess to my stuff?"

  "No," he answered. "It was by me the entire time."

  * * *

  After his 11 AM lecture, Nate joined Jack at the crime scene of Frederick's latest murder, which had taken place late in the evening the day before. Jack had texted that there were a number of reasons why they hadn't moved the body, including that they wanted two physicians to review the body before moving it off.

  Nate waded his way through the cavalcade of evidence gatherers and got as far as the front porch. Another rooming house. The way the house was structured, the cool April air seemed to trap in the porch. There was an almost refrigerator effect that perhaps served in the summer. A beautiful cat, white with a black mask, wove figure-eights around his ankles. He picked it up and petted it.

  “No!” Jack shouted. He barged out the front door and body-blocked Nate. His face was colored and swelled with the flush of expanded blood vessels. His eyes labored and watered.

  Nate reflexively let the cat drop from his arms.

  “Not the cat,” Jack said. “I mean, I don't think you should come in.”

  “Not a good morning after,” Nate murmured sympathetically.

  “Believe me, you can't go in there,” Jack admonished.

  "I've seen a body before. I feel like I can't be of help unless I’m onto the scene,” said Nate. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but their relationship had transformed from being adversarial to being friends. He and Jack were most definitely friends now.

  "You haven't been to a scene like this and you can't come onto this one.” The detective shook his head as though he was trying to dislodge a bug. “Fuck,” he cursed.

  “Jack, it’s not my first dead body. I am a scientist, above all,” Nate said, a little offended that he was being handled this way.

  Jack glowered. "Good for you. It has been five years since you've seen a corpse. I’m fairly certain you haven't seen anything like this before."

  The coroner appeared. “Detective, I think… given the way the victim was killed… I think Professor Castle would be a critical asset to discerning the scene. I have to decipher some of this.”