Gertrude noticed the change in his mood but had no idea he’d spied his target Arthur coming up the hall.
“There he is, dear brother.” Cecilia’s apparition came into focus.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” Gertrude grabbed hold of Ronald’s wrist to ease its quivering.
It came almost immediately, his grasp onto hers, leaving Gertrude staring with concern. “Are you okay?” her voice softened.
He released his grip, prompting her to do the same. “I’m okay. I mean it. You should get to class. It’s already 7:45,” Ronald insisted, hoping his pleasant grin provided the assurance she needed.
Something was amiss. Gertrude couldn’t pinpoint what it was that had shifted, yet she most certainly felt it. “I’ll see you later, Ronald.” She paused, then headed on her way. After a few seconds, Gertrude turned to see if he had been watching her leave. To her dismay, he’d disappeared. At least it seemed so. She didn’t see him . . . not anywhere she turned. Did I do something wrong? Gertrude thought as she turned in disappointment heading off to class.
Having followed Arthur back out to the parking lot, Ronald watched him pull his work shirt out of the backseat of his Nissan Maxima. For him to pin his subject down, he needed an address. The license plate he copied down on the small pad and paper he’d pulled from the breast pocket of his uniform shirt served to be the remedy to his dilemma.
Chapter 8
Take Nothing for Granted
That morning, Joe woke with shooting pains radiating within his loins. The medicine Ronald administered to sedate him had worn off almost completely. He sat upright on the bed, allowing his feet to feel the carpet beneath him. His arm clutched his abdomen, attempting to ease the achiness in his ribs. He thanked God for the feeling of the fibers between his toes, well aware that just hours ago, he was bound to a chair, beaten and dehydrated. Still, it hurt like hell. His battered ribs ached, swollen groin pulsated, and bruised cheek throbbed. I’ve gotta get something to stop this pain.
Joe stood up, inching his way across the room to slide into his house slippers. He planned on going to the drugstore to get something that would knock him out. Vodka and Tylenol PM, he figured, would do the trick. Dressed in the same jeans he was held captive in, Joe grabbed his car keys, then headed out the door.
Squinting from the beaming rays of sun impeding his vision, he cased the scene around him. The things Ronald had done to punish him remained fresh in his mind as he got into the car, flashes pervading his memory all at once.
The moment the bundle of wet cloth touched his abdomen, it all came into recollection. It grazed his skin, sending electric shock waves through his body. Ronald called it shock therapy. He had given Joe a choice as to the form of torture he would receive. From that moment on, number one ceased to be Joe’s favorite. It was as bad as the drowning he had been subject to. Ronald dunked Joe’s head into the tub of water time after time, reviving him only to submerge him again.
Joe forced the disturbing memories from his thoughts, started the engine, then sped out of his driveway, tires screeching. He had even neglected to look before turning out into the street. Just that quick, it was as if he didn’t care about his life. For that moment in time, his safety was of no concern. Maybe he needed to feel in control, strong, fearless.... Either way, the flippant gesture oozed ungratefulness. The false sense of power dissolved in his chest as he mashed his foot to the pedal to brake at the four-way stop.
“What the fuck?” Pump, pump, pump. He mashed the pedal repeatedly while swerving to avoid crossing traffic. The minivan plowed right through the fire hydrant in front of the house on the corner, sending a tower of water shooting through the air. It was the tree that stopped him—and sent his body flying through the windshield toward it. The collision, Joe’s head with the tree, killed him on impact. That was the end of creepy Joe.
* * *
Down at the juvenile facility, Mickey could hear someone’s boots coming up the hall. Trembling like a leaf, he cowered in a corner, dreading the moment his visitor would come into view. The sound of his keys jingling could be heard as he inched closer to Mickey’s cell. A shadow finally revealed itself through the upheaval of tears blurring his vision.
“Hey, kid. What’s the matter with you?” the guard inquired, concerned about why the boy cowered there in the corner.
An instant sense of relief covered Mickey. He thanked God in heaven that it wasn’t creepy old Joe coming to pay him another visit. With the sleeve of his shirt, the boy wiped tears that had since come popping out and running down his scarred cheeks. Not all the abuse he’d received was sexual.
“I’m okay.”
“It’s yard time. Are you not going out with the other boys?”
“Yeah, sure . . .”
Mickey got up slowly, then walked out of his cell and through the halls without seeing old Joe. He thought for sure once he hit the yard, he would be there, taking his pick of the juveniles out playing. But upon feeling the warmth of sunlight on his skin, he looked around, finding his surroundings absent of his abuser. Out of five guards roaming about, none were creepy Joe.
Ronald and Cecilia had done a good thing. At least, Mickey would see it that way.
Chapter 9
Gathering Intel
The lunch wave on campus had ensued, giving Ronald the perfect time to carry out his plan. Only then could he search Arthur’s home without the possibility of being discovered. That is if Ronald was correct in assuming Arthur lived alone. He had done his due diligence to find out what he could from the license plate he’d copied in the school parking lot. After cutting the brake lines on Joe’s car, Ronald had headed straight for the Columbus residence.
“Let’s get acquainted, shall we, Arthur?” Ronald uttered under hushed breath as he picked the lock at the back door of the ranch-style home. If ranch style made it sound fancy, please know it was anything but. The one-level pigsty housed a swarm of gnats, the majority of which hovered over the pile of filthy dishes filling the kitchen sink. Ronald fanned the few around his face, shutting the door behind him.
He felt no change under his feet as he moved from the cement porch to the living room floor because the carpet had been pulled up, leaving the cement slab underneath exposed. Even though only a few of the bulbs in the light fixture illuminated when Ronald flipped the dingy switch on the wall, it was enough for him to see. Assisted by light shining through the tattered mini-blinds, he began to search for clues about the truth behind Arthur Columbus.
“Here, dear brother.”
Just up the hall, Ronald spied Cecilia’s apparition, pointing him in the direction of what it was he needed to see.
* * *
Down on Dwyer Street, the authorities were busy picking fragments of Joe’s brain out of the maple tree in which they had been engrained. It was Detective Edward Barnes’s first week in his position. The lanky bachelor maintained a fierce career focus as taught by his predecessor, who’d sadly met his end several years ago. The elation of graduating from beat cop carried him through his long shifts with gusto to uncover the truth. He held tight to the dream that his aspirations to become the first African American sheriff in his unit would be fulfilled one day.
Barnes examined the horrific scene while spectators loomed nearby, mouths agape as they surmised their versions of the tragic event.
With gloved hands, Drea Alanis, a female detective assisting him in the case, wiped a sample of the fluid from the pavement behind Joe’s wrecked vehicle. She rubbed her fingertips together under her nose, testing its fragrance. “Detective, I think I have something. Smells like brake fluid.”
“We might have a cold-blooded murder on our hands,” Barnes proclaimed. It would be his very first time as lead on a murder case. “Let’s get a sample. We’re doing everything official on this one.”
Detective Alanis, although under him in the ranking, had more experience as a detective on the force. Yet, because she was a transfer from Tarpon Springs, Florida, she had t
o accept the position under Barnes. Even though she felt completely out of her element at times, Detective Alanis remained hell-bent on proving herself. The five-foot-five Greek American woman was the only one in her family to work on the police force, a fact that didn’t make her father proud. He wanted her to find a nice man and settle down. But becoming attached was the last thing on her mind. Besides, first, she’d have to do something with her unkempt eyebrows and bushy brown mane. Either way, it would have to wait until the case was solved.
Joe Poser’s murder had just become their number one priority.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Ronald cruised down Gable, his plans set in motion. He’d planned to go home, but upon glancing ahead at his house, he’d caught sight of Gertrude gardening in the front yard. She looked beautiful in her linen culottes and cheetah print bikini top. So much so, Ronald nearly hit the curb, turning at the corner just before his house.
Gertrude saw the last-minute departure he’d made. Her face flushed over in embarrassment. Oh my gosh, I did say something to turn him off. He can’t even stand to be around me. Maybe it was Chris. I hope he doesn’t think I’m using him to make Chris jealous. Gertrude feared the worst. She’d grown fond of Ronald in just the few hours she’d spent with him. His ignoring her while she lived right next door would be torture to her ego. Even though she felt saddened by his actions, it was because of Aunt May she continued planting the assorted tulips in the dirt lining the front of the house. Gertrude promised her aunt she’d give her some pretty scenery to look at while she sat on the porch. There was no way she was breaking her promise.
About ten minutes later, she noticed Ronald’s van cruising up the street. Just don’t say anything, Gertrude. Let him talk to you. She coached herself on what to do once they’d come face-to-face.
Ronald pulled into the driveway, grabbing his bags before hopping out of the vehicle.
Gertrude was sure to keep her head down as if she hadn’t noticed him there. He closed in on her, studying her attitude as she plowed the hand shovel into the soil.
“Here, put this under your knees.” He pulled a square, flower-printed cushion from the plastic bag in his hands, handing it over to her.
Gertrude looked up at him, towering above. His frame shielded her from the sun’s rays. The first thing she noticed was the tag. Did he just go and buy this? “You bought this for me?” she asked, brandishing a delighted smile.
“Well, I didn’t want you to ruin your pants all because you want to make my yard look presentable,” Ronald admitted.
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Ronald.” Gertrude accepted the gesture of kindness, then proceeded to place the cushion under her knees.
“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do. Do you need any help?”
“There is some dirt I need to be moved. It’s kinda heavy, though.”
“Let me open the garage. I have a wheelbarrow inside. I can move all the dirt you need.”
A smile graced Gertrude’s face as she watched him trek across the lawn—even more smitten than the first day she’d laid eyes on him.
Ronald unlocked the padlock securing the detached garage. No one who lived there actually parked inside. An old, cherry-red 1976 Chevy Caprice, however, did take up space in the windowless structure. The vehicle belonged to the late Mr. Doolally. His father kept his prize car in mint condition. Naturally, Ronald, being his only son and surviving lineage, kept up the tradition.
Like any other garage, it housed all Ronald’s tools and gardening supplies. Yet, there beneath the shiny, red vehicle, something much more sinister loomed. Ronald passed it by, running his fingertips across the hood as he made his way to the corner where the wheelbarrow sat upright. As his hand gripped the worn wooden handle, Mr. Doolally senior came to mind.
Ronald turned, recalling the loud bang that sounded off when his father tossed the battered criminal through the side door of the garage.
* * *
The miscreant rolled across the concrete, unable to slow his momentum. So much so that he plummeted down into the dark opening, underneath the big metal lid propped up with a steel bar. What was hidden beneath the old Chevy had been unearthed that night. It wasn’t often his father opened his “redemption chamber.” The apparatus being privy only to those who didn’t deserve instant death, those awarded the opportunity to redeem themselves. Mr. Doolally felt it imperative that the punishment fit the crime.
“Get your ass down there.” He threatened his captive, who lay in the darkness atop the platform at the bottom of the cement stairwell.
Young Ronald cowered at the hate in his father’s voice. Back then, he’d become frightened of him, well aware of what his old man was capable of. The 7-year-old little boy ducked behind the wheelbarrow, his heart pounding under the bones of his frail chest.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Mr. Doolally pressed onward, having locked them all inside. On the heels of his prisoner, his stone-gray eyes adjusted as he trotted down the dark, narrow, cement stairs, eager to do his due diligence.
Now, although fear had taken hold, curiosity won out. Young Ronald had to see what his father was doing down there in that eight-foot by fifteen-foot cement chamber beneath the garage.
The little boy crept from behind the cover of the wheelbarrow to tiptoe down the stairs. A light that flickered at the end of the steps shone against the concrete wall, illuminating his path down through the corridor, which encouraged him to continue forward. Young Ronald peeked his head around the corner, a witness to his father’s deeds. He counted the holes alongside a Plexiglas box atop a steel rolling table, pondering what purpose they served. The more his bucked eyes took in the scene playing before him, the more his father’s intentions became clear.
An iron trough filled with water sat alongside the men. Young Ronald wondered why the bad man wasn’t screaming. That was until he caught a glimpse of the muzzle fitted around the stranger’s head. It happened just as Mr. Doolally yanked his limp body up from the cold cement by the collar of his blue dress shirt, tossing him over into the Plexiglas casket of sorts. They locked eyes for a second, the obviously remorseful white-collar criminal and the impressionable little boy. Still, young Ronald didn’t move a muscle, crouched there at the edge of the stairwell, safe from the glow of the flickering lantern affixed to the wall. He watched his father pull down the lid on the box, trapping the man inside. The ropes surrounding it, Mr. Doolally connected to a hook and winch suspended above their heads.
Seeing his captive squirm this way and that brought Mr. Doolally a great sense of authority. He brandished an unwavering smirk. His chest puffed with pride as he cranked the Plexiglas casket into the air, then over above the trough of liquid.
Initially, his father cranked it down slow, submerging his prisoner into the tub of cold water, inch by inch. Breaths that were, until then, short and panicked, shifted to deep and purposeful as the stranger anticipated his own drowning death. Mashing the muzzle against one of the openings drilled into the top, he tried desperately to keep his airway free from the flood of liquid overtaking his space.
He’d endure that process twenty times over for what he’d done. If his heart could bear it, he’d live to see another day. It was a decision left up to him in the end—to survive or not to survive.
Back then, young Ronald had no idea he’d one day be called to fill his father’s shoes.
* * *
The realization pulled him from the daydream and back to reality. Ronald made efforts not to allow his feelings of regret to overtake him, knowing full well his sorrow would never go undetected. Taking Cecilia’s presence into account proved beneficial, even in her absence. Deep down, Ronald felt she was always around . . . waiting to state her piece.
Chapter 10
Old Habits Die Hard
Detective Alanis called out to her parents as she crossed the threshold of their foyer. “Mom, Dad, I’m here.”
“It’s about time. We’re in here,” her irri
tated father answered from the dining room table, already having been waiting on their daughter to show up.
“I’ll go and get dinner out of the oven since she’s here.” Mrs. Alanis got up from the table, then scurried into the kitchen.
“Hello, parents,” Alanis greeted as she pulled open the door between the dining and living room.
“You’re late,” her father groaned.
“I love you too, Patéras.” She kissed him atop his forehead. “Where is Mitéra?”
“She’s preparing dinner now that her inconsiderate daughter has graced us with her presence.”
“Oh, Patéras, you’ll raise your blood pressure. You should calm down.” Drea moved through to the kitchen to help her mother.
Mrs. Alanis stood at the stove tossing the salad, just having added the blue cheese crumbles and tomatoes. The moussaka sat cooling atop one of the stove’s eyes. She could smell the eggplant and ground beef dish the moment she walked through the door. The traditional dish was a specialty of her mother’s. Detective Alanis admired her mother, how well she kept herself up over the years just being there in the house. Her long, black mane stretched down her exposed back. The white linen dress she donned was something she only wore inside the house.
“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come over and help your mitéra?” her mother inquired without having even turned to see if she was there.
“I’d be happy to help,” Drea replied as she rolled up her sleeves, proceeding to assist.
“Wash your hands, young lady.”
“Of course.” Drea went to do as her mother asked.
“Looks like your patéras is going to need more cons vincing,” her mother remarked as to her father’s state of mind.
“Is he still angry at me for not coming to All Saint’s Day? It was ages ago, really,” she complained.
“He’s angry about more than that. Your being late today just dredged that memory back up. You know why your father is upset.” Mrs. Alanis turned to her daughter, forehead wrinkled between her bushy brows.
Deadliest Intuition Page 5