Jack & Djinn
Amber Sweetapple
copyright © 2012 Amber Sweetapple
edited by Alexis Arendt
formatting by Jason G Anderson
This is a work of fiction. All persons, events, and locales are either fictitious or used fictitiously. References to any real people, places or events are meant solely to provide a sense of authenticity and reality.
Thank you to my wonderful husband and kids, my parents, and my fabulous beta readers. You rock!
Chapter 1: Now
The body was completely immolated, burned beyond recognition into a charred pile of bones and teeth. Detective Carson Hale knelt beside the pitiful remains of what had once been a person, prodding a femur with the tip of his pen.
“Damn, Jenn,” he said, “There’s just nothing left. I mean, nothing.” They were at MGM Grand Detroit, in the lowest level of the parking garage. A janitor had found the body, if you could call it that. Carson stood up and wiped the pen on his pants leg, wishing he hadn’t just poked a dead body with it. He had a tendency to chew on his pens.
“I know,” Jenn answered. A twenty-year veteran of the Detroit PD, Jenn Lawrence was a thin, athletic woman of forty-three, ten years older than Carson. She glanced down at the skeleton in disgust and confusion. “What I can’t figure out is what could do this to a body? I mean, I’m not even sure how we’ll get a positive ID on it.”
“Not only that, but there’s no other evidence of fire. Look around, Jenn. For a fire to get hot enough to do this to a body, there would have to be some kind of evidence of the fire, right? But there’s nothing. No scorch marks on the floors, the walls, or even the ceiling, which isn’t that far above my head.”
“Maybe the body was torched intentionally? Like with accelerant or something?”
Carson could tell Jenn was prodding him to think it through. She had probably come to her own conclusions, but she wanted Carson to figure it out for himself, since she still considered him a rookie, even though this was his sixth year on homicide.
“I don’t know, though,” Carson said. “If that was the case, wouldn’t there be burn marks on the floors, where lit accelerant splashed off the body to the floor? A person lit on fire panics, you know? It takes time for them to die, so they run around, knock into things. There should be smears on the walls where the victim slammed into it, but there’s not. It’s like the victim was lit on fire where they stood, and then burned down to this little pile almost instantly.”
“Okay, let’s forget the body for a second.” Jenn glanced around at the taped-off crime scene. It was in a distant corner of the garage, a dead end where few cars were ever parked. “What else do we know? Anything?”
“Well, there’s a pool of blood over there,” Carson pointed to a spot a few feet away from the skeleton. “It’s a big pool of blood. I don’t think it’s from this guy here, though.”
Jenn examined the blood. It was dried and tacky, so several hours old, but less than a day. “You’re right about that. I’d say this is definitely from a second person.”
“There’re four shell casings over there and a nine millimeter pistol near the body, as if it was dropped when the victim was torched, however that happened.” Carson pointed to a third spot, nearer where the burned skeleton was. “We’re probably looking for a second body, based on the amount of blood that’s here. I’m guessing we have a double-homicide. The pistol and the casings are near the burned victim, which makes me think he or she was the shooter.” Carson was conjecturing out loud, trying to piece together a scenario based on the few immediate facts they had.
“I don’t know,” Jenn objected. “If someone is shot four times, I don’t think they’ll be setting anyone on fire. I think we’re looking for another body and a third person, the killer.”
“Either way, the next step is to print the gun and the casings, and see where that leads us.”
They went back into the casino and found the manager in his office, dictating his report to a patrol officer. Carson didn’t like the manager. He was a short, agitated little man, with a sharp nose, beady, shifting eyes, and nervous fingers. Wouldn’t look you in the eye, shuffled his feet as if he’d like to run away if he could. Ratty, Carson thought of him. Mr. Rat. He even had a squeaky voice.
“I don’t know nothin’,” Mr. Rat claimed. “I swear it. I wasn’t here till mebbe five o’clock this evenin’, and you’re tellin’ me this all happened late last night or early this mornin’. The shifts’ve all changed since then. I can’t tell you nothin’ but who was on schedule last night and when they’ll be on again. But we got dozens of waitresses and security and janitors. This place is huge, officer, you know that. We got a staff that runs in the hundreds. Gettin’ any of ‘em to tell you a straight story, even if they saw somethin’ is gonna be quite a chore, not to mention trackin’ ‘em all down. I’ll tell you what I can do is I’ll put the word out to the staff that if anyone knows anythin’ to tell me and I’ll pass it along to you. The thing is, like any parking garage, that one’s open to the street, so anyone could’ve wandered in and my staff wouldn’t’ve seen nothin’ anyway.”
Carson hated to admit it, but Mr. Ratty was right. There was simply no way they could spend the time hunting down all the possible people who could have seen something, especially when there was no evidence the victim or victims had ever been in the casino in the first place. As he swung his muscular, six-foot-three frame into the unmarked Impala, Carson had a feeling that this was going to be a tricky case. Some were like that. You started out with very little to go on, and got nowhere. There were boxes full of unsolved cold cases back at the precinct.
There was something about the way the body was burned that kept turning over in Carson’s head. No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn’t make sense of it. Had the body been burned somewhere else and dumped in the garage? That made no sense whatsoever; the body wasn’t dumped, it had fallen. The way the bones were arranged suggested the body had toppled over dead on the spot, some bones still touching where they had been joined by tissue. If it had been dumped, the bones would be disarranged into a jumbled pile. Besides, why would someone dump a dead, burnt-to-a-crisp body in a casino parking garage? A gambling debt? That was one possibility, but until they had a positive ID on the body, it was still just conjecture.
Carson tried to dismiss the mystery for the moment. They had to ID the body first, or they’d be dead in the water. The security cameras had a few images that might be connected to the crime, but there was no footage of the crime itself.
They went back to the precinct and had the pistol and the casings tested for fingerprints. The prints belonged to Benjamin Omar: 29, Lebanese-American, served two tours of duty in Afghanistan with the U.S. Marine Corps. No priors except for a few parking tickets and a speeding ticket. Rented an apartment in downtown Royal Oak. A subsequent search of Omar’s military records resulted in dental records matching that of the body found in the MGM Grand parking garage. So now they had a positive ID on the body and place to start.
The next day, Carson and Jenn drove up to his apartment complex in Royal Oak and spoke to the apartment manager. The apartment manager claimed he’d only met Ben once, when he signed the lease, and there was only one neighbor home to interview, Matthew Hackett. Matt was a retiree, a portly older man with yellow, nicotine-stained teeth and long, unkempt hair and grizzled beard.
“Yeah, I know Ben a little,” Matt claimed in a rough drawl. “Not well, but some. He’s nice enough to me, when I see him in the hallway. Spent two years fightin’ that war in Afghanistan, you know.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?” Carson asked. “Anyone who comes over on a regular basis?”
“Oh yeah,” Matt answered, “Miriam. Nic
e girl. Mebbe five-five, real long brown hair, nearly down to her waist, the one time I saw her with it down. Beautiful girl, that Miriam. Had a real nice set of–” Matt trailed off with his hands cupped in front of his chest, glancing at Jenn and shifting tactics. “Er. Yeah. She’s real purty.”
“Did she and Ben get along?” Carson asked.
“Most of the time, I guess. I hear ‘em arguin’ a good bit, mostly him yellin’ at her. She don’t stay over though, she usually leaves late at night. I don’t sleep much you know.”
“So you watch your neighbors?” Jenn interjected.
“Well…” Matt shifted uncomfortably, flushing red. “I ain’t done nothing’, I just watch her go, make sure she gets out to the street okay. I feel bad for her, a bit. Why she stays with Ben, I don’t know.”
This got Carson’s attention. “What does that mean, Mister Hackett? Does Ben mistreat her?”
“Well, she’s had a black eye every now and again. These walls, they ain’t too thick, you know? So I hear, but I ain’t tryin’ to listen in, you know?” The more agitated he got, the thicker his Southern drawl became. “So yeah, I’ve heard him smack her a few times. Say, what’s this about, anyways? He finally went too far, is that it? Ben’s usually home long before now, but I ain’t seen him in a while.”
“We are currently investigating Mister Omar’s death.” Carson said.
“He’s dead?” Matt was shocked. “How’d he die? You think Miriam did it?”
“I can’t divulge the details of the case, Mister Hackett. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
Matt thought before answering. “Well, they both worked at the Taproom down the street. I think Miriam lives right near the bar. I heard ‘em talkin’ about that a few times. Try the bar, you might find something useful there.”
They checked Ben’s apartment and found it fairly spartan. An expensive but faded leather couch and loveseat, a huge flat screen TV, no artwork or decorations of any kind, except a picture of Ben’s Marine unit on a side table. There were a few bills lying on the dining room table, with a box of 9mm shells and spare clips next to them. Made that connection obvious, if it wasn’t already. Other than that, there was nothing else. Ben’s apartment seemed like somewhere he slept and that was about it.
Ben’s apartment had yielded little new evidence; the real lead was the interview with the neighbor regarding Ben’s girlfriend, Miriam.
Carson needed to find Miriam; the burning question was if he would find her dead or alive.
Chapter 2: Then
Miriam watched Ben pour the tequila into the shaker, trying to gauge his mood. He seemed calm enough, but it was always hard to tell. She placed the last high-ball onto the round black tray, hefted it to her shoulder and moved out into the bustle of the bar. She had to navigate carefully, holding the tray above her head at times. The Taproom was bustling, full of drunks watching the Tigers play. She felt a hand grab her backside as she passed, and she halted in her tracks, cursing at the owner of the hand. He just leered, winked, and reached for her again, but Ben’s hand flashed out and latched on with crushing force. Miriam winced in sympathy, knowing exactly how painful Ben’s grip was.
“Keep your filthy hands to yourself, asshole,” Ben growled, leaning down over the customer, a sweaty, round-faced man of about forty, wearing a green John Deere trucker hat and a flannel shirt. “If I see you touch my waitress again, I’ll throw you out on your ass, you understand me?”
“Yeah, sure. I getcha, pal,” the man said, trying to tug his hand free. Ben clamped down harder, until the man squirmed. With one last glare, Ben released him and sauntered back to the bar. Miriam dropped off the rest of her drinks and went back to the service bar with her new orders.
“Thanks Ben,” she said.
“Yeah. You okay, baby?” Ben snatched a ticket from the printer.
“He just copped a feel, no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Not in my bar. Not my girlfriend.” He mixed the drinks and slid them to her. “If he does it again, tell me. I’ll beat the shit out of him.”
“Ben, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.”
Ben glared at her. “Just tell me if he does it again.”
Great, Miriam thought. He’d be in a bad mood the rest of the night. A good mood in Ben was mercurial, coming and going like clouds drifting across the sun, but a bad mood would linger and very little could lift him out of it. A bad mood for Ben meant a bad night for Miriam.
The rest of the night passed without incident, and closing time finally arrived. Ben bellowed out the last call and cashed Miriam and the others out. By the time they were done with their sidework, Ben had shooed the last stubborn drinker out and counted the drawers. They shut off the lights and left out the back. The other waitresses scattered to their cars and drove off, leaving Ben and Miriam standing in a pool of dull, flickering orange light.
“You coming over?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know, Ben. I’m tired and I work a double tomorrow.” Miriam hoped he would take the hint, but she knew better.
“Just come over for a little bit.” Ben grabbed her hand and rubbed her knuckles.
Miriam sighed, knowing what he wanted. “Are you going to be nice?”
“I’m always nice.” He stepped closer and looked down into her eyes. He knew how to manipulate her, and she hated that. She sighed and let him lead her to his battered S-10. His hand rubbed her thigh the whole way back to his apartment, his palm moving in circles around the same spot until she wanted to bat his hand away in irritation. She didn’t though, because that would piss him off.
He was kissing her neck as he unlocked his door, and by the time they got to his bedroom, he had her shirt off and her pants unbuttoned. She was tired and her feet hurt, and this was the last thing she wanted, but it was easier than trying to put him off.
Ben was as self-centered in bed as he was elsewhere: as soon as he finished, he rolled over and went to sleep. Miriam was surprised, then, when her skin tightened and turned warm, then hot, her muscles contracting and pulsing as a rush of adrenaline crashed through her. This wasn’t Ben’s doing, something told her. This was something else. There was another wave of heat and contraction, and then something popped inside of her, a brief, miniature explosion, something internal, non-physical, almost as if a circuit breaker had surged in her soul. Miriam was left breathless, flushed, and confused.
Ben didn’t notice; he was already unconscious, snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. He could fall asleep instantly, anytime, anywhere. She envied him that; she would sometimes lay awake for hours, waiting for sleep to come. This time, she sat propped up with sheet around her chest, wondering about the odd sensation she’d just experienced. Eventually she shrugged it off and dressed as quietly as she could. Ben was snoring, but he was a light sleeper. As she slipped her shoes on, she noticed Ben’s cell phone sitting on the bedside table. She went over and picked it up, puzzled. She was sure she had seen him sending a text earlier in the night, and he had had a different phone, then. She knew his phone all too well, as he was always on it, sending a text or checking sports scores. He was always complaining about his phone too, saying he couldn’t wait to upgrade because his was already obsolete. The phone sitting by his bed, however, was brand new, a next-gen iPhone, just released. She checked his pants pockets, but they were empty. No, she thought, this is where he always puts his phone. She knew his routine: walk in, keys on the microwave, shoes in the front closet, phone on the bedside table. It never varied, even when he was drunk. She thought back, visualizing him standing behind the bar, leaning back and tapping on the keys of his Blackberry with one thumb. Miriam shook her head, thinking she must be mistaken. She couldn’t get rid of the idea as she walked back to the bar. Something odd had happened tonight, but she couldn’t figure out what.
The parking lot of the bar was abandoned, except for Miriam’s ancient Volvo. She smiled at the rusted gray sedan, remembering how long she’d lived in it after he
r Mom had left. It was old, and ugly, and had over two hundred thousand miles on it, but it had been her home and her only possession for over a year. She didn’t drive it much anymore since she lived above the bar where she worked.
* * *
Ben showed up the next morning, rapping on the screen door. “Hey, Miriam! Open up, it’s Ben.” Miriam stood up from the table and stretched, trying to delay letting him in. He’d be pissed she left last night. He never understood why she insisted on going home to her own apartment, no matter what time it was. She didn’t know how to explain it either, which only frustrated him more. Sex was one thing, but sleeping together? That was totally different. The idea of sleeping next to Ben, vulnerable and unconscious…No way. If she was awake, she had some kind of control over what happened. Asleep, she was helpless.
She’d learned that the hard way. Her ex-boyfriend, Nick, had had a psychotic break in the middle of the night. She had woken up with a hand over her mouth, a kitchen knife to her throat, his mad eyes wide and staring at her. She’d grabbed hold of the lamp on the bedside stand and brained him with it. Since then, she’d never slept over at a boyfriend’s house. She couldn’t seem to find guys who were stable. All of them were moody, dangerous—some were violent, all were unpredictable. Some just called her names when they got mad, cursed at her, called her fat, a slut, a bitch, a whore…all the names they could think of just to hurt her. They weren’t bad, really. They were just difficult and abusive. She wanted to love them, but they only left her aching and bruised, inside and out.
Ben’s fist pounded on the screen now, and his voice was harsh and angry. “Let me in! Come on!”
She pulled open the door and let him in, saying, “Chill out, Ben. I was in the bathroom.” A lie, but it was the easiest way.
He brushed past her and went straight for the cabinet and grabbed a coffee mug, helping himself. Typical. Never asked, just took. “Why do you always leave?” There it was. Every time. “I don’t get it, Miri. I’d really like it if you stayed sometimes.”
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