Jericho's Razor

by Casey Doran

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “It’s just nice to see you on the ropes for a change,” I said. “It sucks having somebody drag up memories that you would just as soon keep buried, doesn’t it?”

  “Touché. But now it’s your turn.”

  I decided to keep it as factual as possible. I slid the note directing me to the meeting under the viaduct across the table and explained that I arrived to find the old man and nobody else. He said someone had been there waiting for me, but took off after being spooked by a cop car.

  Jagger shook her head and looked up at me. “You went down there alone? Without telling me or Eddie.”

  “That’s exactly what I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t necessarily trust you or Eddie.”

  Jagger pushed her empty coffee mug to the side of the table. Amber was on it immediately. She refilled Jagger’s cup and topped off mine before hurrying away.

  “She’s trying to listen in without being obvious about it,” Jagger noticed.

  “Can you blame her?”

  Jagger pulled a notepad and pen from the pocket of her coat.

  “Did the homeless guy give you a description of the person he talked to?”

  “Generic white guy. Average height. Average build.”

  “How about the vehicle?”

  I thought about the description of the Eli’s Camaro. Cream colored. Dented fenders. Late seventies. It sounded like the kind of car that you would have to be blindfolded to miss. Jagger would put out the description and every cop in the county would be looking for it. It was a good lead, but I decided to keep quiet. I rationalized my decision by telling myself that if the car was seen by officers, they would likely empty their service weapons into the windshield rather than try to take Eli alive. I didn’t want that to happen. Too many questions of why my brother had taken this path would be left unanswered.

  “He said he didn’t see it very well. To be honest, I don’t think he can see anything very well.”

  Jagger put away the pen and notepad and looked at me from across the table. She had great eyes.

  “You’re not telling me everything, Sands.”

  “Neither are you, Jagger.”

  Apparently at a stalemate, went back to our food. Jagger seemed completely at ease to sit in silence. Amber hovered close to the table, either to see if we needed anything or possibly catch parts of conversation. But after ten minutes she gave up on us and went back to her to her other tables.

  “You have a book signing today at four,” Jagger said, mopping up maple syrup with a slab of pancake. “Eddie and I want to be there with some officers in plainclothes. This person is focused on you. It’s a good bet he will show up. Hell, I’ll bet he even walks right up to the table and hands over a book for you to sign.”

  “Sure. He’ll ask me to make it out to the River City Slasher and then hand himself over to you.”

  “No, smart ass. But it’s our best bet of getting him to come out into the open. We’ll have people in position inside the store. If he does anything to tip his hand, we can move on him.”

  “That’s putting a lot of innocent people at risk,” I said. “What if you move on him and he decides to resist?”

  “We do this for a living, Sands. Most people would freak if they knew about the ops we ran without them knowing. Which is why we are so good keeping them a secret.”

  It was a good idea. Maybe Eli would surface. Even if it was only for a second, it might be enough. I sure wasn’t having any luck driving around and hoping I tripped over him.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”

  “Thank you. It’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I took a nap, showered, and changed into the one suit I own for book signings, interviews, and court appearances. A line wrapped around the bookstore filled with the people who, for some unknown reason, pay their hard-earned money to read my books. A large photo of myself was displayed prominently in the window: JERICHO SANDS. MASTER OF MAYHEM. My table was set up in the far corner of the building in the Mystery section. As fans waited to be allowed entrance, Jagger’s voice sounded in my ear. She had supplied me with a small earpiece, no larger than a hearing aid. She had explained that it would transmit from her end only.

  “Scratch your neck if you can hear me.”

  I did so.

  “I like the suit. You clean up pretty well. But you have some seriously weird fans.”

  I had nothing to say to that, and she wouldn’t have been able to hear it if I did. But I could see her point. Many of those in line were dressed to resemble Christian Black on a killing spree. They wore splatter suits dotted with red paint and carried plastic machetes and butcher knives. Others wielded toy chainsaws that made cheesy revving noises. It was not a high-class affair, but I would not have had it any different. Writing pulp horror novels was my therapy and atonement. These were the people who listened, who allowed me to do what I do and kept me sane, since I could not picture doing anything else.

  I searched the crowd of faces for Eli. Jagger apparently had eyes on me and mistook my motives.

  “Stop looking for me. I’ll be floating around the room trying to blend in. If our guy is here, we don’t want to tip him off.”

  I scratched my neck again. The manager took down the rope sectioning off the area, and the line began moving forward. Fans approached the desk. I scribbled my autograph on everything from books to meat cleavers to the occasional bosom. I could hear Jagger muttering every time a female fan handed me a Sharpie and pulled down her shirt. People offered story suggestions, claiming to have the perfect idea for a Christian Black novel. I thanked them but told them I didn’t do collaborations and that if they wanted to write a novel, they should pursue their own ideas.

  The line dwindled to a half dozen people. There was no sign of Eli or anybody else who looked suspicious. A man hurried in. He was dressed in jeans and work boots and a black sweatshirt. The sweatshirt had the name of a moving company.

  “Boss made me stay late at work. I was worried I was going to miss you.”

  “I’m glad you made it.”

  He handed me a well-worn copy of Black as Night and asked me to make it out to Neil.

  “Looks like this has seen some use,” I said, scribbling my name across the title page.

  “I’ve read it five times. I love Christian Black. Reading him is like living vicariously through someone. He does all the things I would love to do but can’t. You know what I mean?”

  “Perfectly.”

  I signed the book and handed it back. Nobody was left in line, and he took this to mean that we had a few minutes to chat.

  “So are you going to write a book about the River City Slasher?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never done true crime before.”

  “Seems like it would be right up your alley. Especially since Christian Black never gets caught.”

  “You don’t think the Slasher will get caught?”

  “No way. Not unless he walks right into the police station and turns himself in like Kevin Spacey did in the movie Seven. Maybe you can catch him, because you can think like him. But he’s way too smart for the police.”

  “What did that dickhead just say?” Jagger asked in my ear.

  “Well, Neil, let’s hope you’re wrong.”

  “Yeah. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

  I found Torrez and Jagger outside looking at list on a clipboard.

  “So far we have identified nine possible suspects. Four likely.”

  I leaned in and looked between them. “How did you get their names and all their info so fast?”

  “Did you happen to notice the Barbie Doll in the black halter top floating around the line?” Jagger asked.

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “She was an undercover officer posing as the vice president of your fan club. She handed out cards for a drawing for a free autographed copy of your next book.”r />
  “Good idea.”

  “Thank you. Like I said, we do this for a living. Most days, we’re pretty good at it.”

  “We actually identified ten people,” Torrez said. “But the latecomer didn’t want to fill out a card and split right after talking to you. We got his plate and are running it right now. It should come back any second.”

  Torrez’s cell phone rang and he stepped away to take it. Jagger came up to me and gave me a squeeze on the arm.

  “You did well today,” she said.

  “I had the easy part.”

  “I wouldn’t call acting as bait the easy part.”

  “Thanks. But I wouldn’t go complimenting me too loud. Your partner may overhear.”

  “Eddie is a good guy. And a great cop. He just has a lot of heat on him right now.”

  “I would figure you both do.”

  “Yeah. But not like him.”

  I looked over her shoulder and saw that Torrez was still on the phone.

  “Look. It’s none of my business, but you two seem pretty close.”

  “Of course we are. We’re partners.”

  “Right. But I meant closer than that. In my experience, cops don’t usually refer to each other by their first names in front of civilians.”

  “Of course that’s what you meant. Just like every other prick at the station, his ex-wife, and every guy I’ve tried to date. We work well together, so of course that means we must be fucking.”

  “Hey, sorry I asked.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Torrez walked back over to us. “Info came back on the car. Neil Wozniak. Twenty-eight years old. Single. He has three DUI’s and is driving on a suspended license.”

  “Sounds like Hannibal Lecter,” I said.

  “No. But it means we can pick him up, which officers are doing right now. They’re going to bring him to the station for us.”

  “And then what? Put him in a box for so long he’ll confess to anything?”

  “What’s the problem, Sands? You act like you know something you’re not telling us.”

  Jagger was looking right at me, and I almost spilled it. But I held back. Let them follow this lead. Hopefully, it would pan out.

  “Nothing. Just nerves, you know. I want this over.”

  “Go home. We’ll take care of this. If anything happens, I’ll call you.”

  I went home and took Doomsday for a walk. It usually consists of him trotting off by himself with me trailing behind. Tonight was no different. He found a brand-new Mercedes SUV parked illegally and soaked its fender.

  Back home, he flopped on the couch. I filled his food bowls, turned on the television for him, and poured myself a Jack Daniel’s over ice.

  “You are the most low-maintenance dog on the planet.” He turned my way as though telling to me shut up while he watched TV, and then set his head down on the armrest. While my hyper-independent canine watched Deadliest Catch, I smoked, drank whiskey, and wondered why I had asked Jagger about her relationship with Torrez.

  The bare spot on the wall from Kat’s repossessed painting drew my attention, as though offering the answer. We had been good for a short period of time. Incredible for a period even shorter than that. Our relationship began from mutual attraction, and satisfaction that our pairing pissed so many people off. Kat loves her father and her brother. But she takes a deep-seated, almost sadistic joy in dating men who they hate, and I succeeded in that area in ways no previous guy ever approached. Our time together always seemed to balance on one of two sides of the scales: fucking or fighting, with both activities being equally intense. Only for a short while had we managed to find a way to be passionate without the need to break up every few weeks and throw ourselves into crazy make-up sex.

  Then I ruined it by throwing her brother in a Dumpster.

  I had held out hopes that our on again, off again pattern would swing back. But the more we were separated by distance and time, the less likely that became. A week ago, the thought of seeing anyone else was the furthest thing from my mind.

  The fact that I was now being used as a pawn in game being played a serial killer dictated that my love life should be nowhere on the radar. It was one of the many levels that made getting involved with Alyssa Jagger a horrible idea. The timing couldn’t be worse. But there was something about Jagger that I could not shut off in my mind, and I found myself drawn to her. It was crazy to even consider. But then, I stopped trying to figure myself out years ago.

  I was topping off my drink, and the show’s narrator was tallying the crab totals for the fleet, when the phone rang. It was my agent, reminding me that I was over a month past deadline and that my publisher’s patience was wearing thin. The only thing in my favor was the prospect of turning the Slasher killings into a book. Before hanging up, he made me swear to get the final draft to him by end of business the next day.

  I made a pot of coffee and spent the night finishing the book. It seemed sacrilegious to be typing scenes of murder and mayhem after all that happened. But writing was more than just me trying to focus and vent my inner demons. It was also my job.

  But I was at a crossroads. After seeing Christian’s fictional acts carried out in stark reality, I wrote with the new fear that someday somebody else would use my work as inspiration to commit more horrors. I knew that I would never again be able to write him with the same vigor that fans had come to expect. Christian Black had been my paycheck, my surrogate, and my freedom. He kept me living comfortably without having to get a real job. But now he felt like an anchor.

  I decided on a compromise. Christian Black would go down in a blaze of glory. In his final act of violence, he would be taken down by a pair of cops who had discovered his secret. Every writer struggles with the prospect of someday killing off the character that made him popular. Most would never consider it. But I felt the decision had been made for me. It would bring a reaction. Many fans would feel cheated. But it had to be done, consequences be damned.

  As always, I wrote with the drumstick close at hand and twirled it whenever I took a pause from the keyboard. It had been a gift from Kat, one from her favorite set when she was in her previous band and pounded the skins. She received the set from a fan who was born and raised in Haiti before moving to the area. He told Kat a story of an exorcism performed on a young boy who was possessed by an evil demon. According to the legend, the evil spirit left the boy during the ceremony and entered the drumsticks, thus placing a curse on whoever held them. Kat didn’t buy it. She figured the guy probably bought the sticks online and made up the story to try and impress her. But they were mysterious and beautiful and quickly became her favorite. After only a few shows, she retired them to her bookshelf, not wanting to risk breaking them by beating against her Zildjians. I asked about them during my first visit to her house. She told me the story and then gave me one, saying with a smile, “Now we’re both cursed, Sandman.”

  She hadn’t been kidding. We were history, the drumstick was covered in dust and I was left to wonder if I needed a new talisman.

  By midnight, I had a completed draft that was ready to send to my publisher. I stared at the message telling me that the document had been sent. New York was one hour ahead. At one o’ clock in the morning, there would be nobody there to receive it. The phone call would come soon enough. Publishers are even less eager to see the “money character” die than the fans. If a writer makes such a decision, they had damn sure better have another lucrative character loaded in the chamber.

  I grabbed a beer from the fridge, stood at the window and watched lights on the Murray Baker Bridge pass across the black river.

  My cell vibrated. I wondered what would happen if it was the Slasher. Would I ask if it was Eli? Would he tell me? How would I react if he did? I picked up the phone.

  But it was just Jagger.

  “I wanted to let you know that Wozniak lawyered up. He’s sitting in lockup right now and not saying a thing.”

  “What do you think? Is it h
im?”

  I heard her sigh. “I would love to say yes. But I’m not seeing it. I think he’s just another lowlife who doesn’t like cops.”

  “So ... back to square one.”

  “Looks that way. Unless you have something else to offer. It seemed like you had something you wanted to tell me earlier.”

  Again, I wanted to tell her. In my hesitation, I got a call waiting. The number was listed as “unknown.”

  “Jagger, I have to go.”

  “Who’s calling you at midnight? Is it him?”

  “Uh, no,” I said, not wanting her to know it could be Eli on the line. “It’s Kat.”

  “Sure. I get it. Well, don’t let me keep you from a booty call, stud.”

  Jagger hung up and I switched to the other call, knowing who it was but still not ready for it.

  “Hello, big brother. Long time.”

  Eli’s voice rasped through the phone line. It was a bad connection, like he was calling someplace with weak coverage. But there was no mistaking it. It was the voice from my childhood. The voice with which I would debate subjects like cars and girls and baseball. The voice that would tell me some stupid joke that would make me hunch over with laughter. The voice that I had not heard for years, but was still instantly familiar.

  “You there Jericho?”

  “I’m here. We need to talk. Where are you?”

  “Why do you want to know? Are you going to send the cops again?”

  “No. And I didn’t send the cops last night.”

  “So it was just a coincidence that a patrol car was lurking down there?”

  “Yes, Eli. It was a coincidence. Cops are down there all the time. And after two murders, cops tend to be patrolling all over the place.”

  “Whatever.”

  I stepped away from the window and started to pace. “Look, I know what you’re doing. It has to stop.”

  “You know what I’m doing? It doesn’t even look like you know what you are doing.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “That sting at the bookstore was so obvious.”