Corktown

by Ty Hutchinson

  Wilkinson inhaled the last of his second chili dog and chewed. I poured more ranch dressing on my salad and mixed it in. I could sense Wilkinson wasn’t buying everything I said, but as my partner, he was willing to go along for the ride. I appreciated his trust. “This person could have been studying our original guy. According to the newspaper articles, some case details that should have remained off-limits were released. It was completely possible for someone to pick up where Garrison left off.”

  Wilkinson swallowed the last of his fries and brushed his hands off. “Why go through the trouble of making the kills so exact? Most copycats are sloppy about it. This person is dead on.”

  “Maybe he wants people to think the killer was never caught in the first place.”

  We pondered our conversation while I finished off my salad.

  Wilkinson broke the silence. “Where does it all go—the food?”

  I shrugged, knowing he meant that as a compliment. My body was more athletic than curvaceous. Though, what I wouldn’t do to have more booty. Just for once I’d love to wiggle it, just a little bit. I wiped my mouth and reapplied my lipstick.

  “You know, Garrison is being held in a prison not too far from us,” Wilkinson said.

  “I guess it’s time for our first field trip.”

  12

  Grosse Pointe was an enclave for wealthy Detroit. A lot of old money resided in the neighborhood but the nouveau riche had started to take over. Either way, Preston Carter’s SUV, a Mercedes, allowed him to blend perfectly.

  He parked his vehicle near the corner of East Jefferson Avenue and St. Clair Street and sat comfortably inside, hidden from the pummeling sun thanks to a large oak tree. Etta James crooned softly from the sound system as Preston hummed along. His windows were down, allowing the lazy breeze from the lake to carry its scent by him. He had been waiting for close to an hour with an eye on Strafford Lane, across the street. It led to a quiet cul-de-sac near the lake’s edge.

  Almost time for another lesson, Preston chuckled. He was excited about the work he did. He felt people had to learn that there were consequences for their actions—that they had to be kept in check, made aware of such things. It’s my job to teach them.

  Ten minutes later, an old pickup truck with lawn equipment in the back squealed to a stop at the corner of E. Jefferson and Strafford. The gardener was done for the day. Preston knew he had two hours before the man of the house would return from work. He started his engine and drove to the two-story brick house with white trim at the end of Strafford. Tall hedges surrounded the property to keep the neighbors at bay, with the exception of the side of the house that faced the lake.

  Preston pulled his SUV into the driveway; the gate was on the fritz and therefore wide open. Of course, he had known that. A few seconds later, he rang the doorbell and waited.

  The door creaked open, enough for a woman in her early fifties to peek out. She didn’t seem worried that a stranger had entered the property and stood outside her door. Preston was a good-looking man with a full head of hair. He stood six feet with proportionate weight. His attire was conservatively wealthy, and most importantly, he had a charming smile.

  “May I help you?” the woman said.

  “Sorry to bother you. Mrs. Walters… It is Mrs. Walters, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Do I know you?”

  Preston let out a friendly chuckle and teetered back on his heels. “No, unfortunately we haven’t met. I know your husband, Dennis.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Preston Carter. Pleased to meet you.”

  Mrs. Walters smiled, her guard completely down, as she opened the door all the way. Preston breathed in deeply. Lilac. How refreshing.

  She wore a knee-length cream linen dress, and a single strand of pearls draped her thin neck. Her blond locks were pulled back neatly into a bun and held in place by a jeweled pin. She seemed extremely composed, though he did detect a hint of highbrow in her demeanor.

  “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, too, Preston. Call me Irene,” she said as she extended her hand. A few seconds later, she wished she hadn’t.

  13

  The Macomb Correctional Facility was a thirty-minute drive north east of Detroit. We didn’t bother to check in with Lieutenant White, preferring to take our own chances with visitation. Just as I thought, a flash of our badges got us an appointment to see Michael Garrison. It’s good to be FBI.

  After we checked our sidearms in with the officer behind the counter, we were told to have a seat. Ten minutes of kicking at the floor and reading Time magazines passed before a pudgy guy in a uniform approached us.

  “I’m Gary Walczak, the senior corrections officer on duty. I understand you two are FBI agents and want to see inmate #04291144, Michael Garrison.”

  “That’s correct,” I said. “Will that be a problem?”

  “Nah, but I need to inform you that, because of the nature of his crimes, he’s kept separate from general pop. Too many guys want a crack at him for what he did. He’s not even allowed in the visitor’s room. We have a place where you can meet with him privately.”

  “That’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Just a warning, if you hadn’t already been told, he’s got a quick mouth. He likes to instigate and get under your skin. It’s all a game with him.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  A few minutes later we were led into a twelve-by-ten room containing a metal table and two stools, all bolted to the floor. Before we could settle in, Michael Garrison shuffled into the room, handcuffed and chained at the ankles.

  To be honest, he wasn’t what I expected. For one, I thought he would be taller and not so skinny-jean thin. His hair was a greasy mess and he had a spotty beard. The officer sat him down and chained his handcuffs to the table.

  “You guys okay?” Walczak asked.

  We both nodded and then waited until the door clanked shut before addressing Garrison—only he opened his mouth first. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m Agent Abby Kane and this is my partner Agent Trey Wilkinson. We’re with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions, Michael.”

  “Call me Blade,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “All right, Blade. I want—”

  “You guys fucking each other?”

  The officer wasn’t kidding. I took a moment to figure out a plan for that jack-hole. I knew his type—met plenty over the years. Fighting them never works. I straightened up. “Would you answer my questions if I said we were?”

  “Maybe.”

  A smirk developed on his face. Still, his eyes never wavered. Give and take, Abby. I leaned forward a bit. “We’re fuck buddies. Now tell me, Blade—”

  “How often?” He shot back as his eyes focused on my breasts.

  “At the bank, why did you kill all those people?”

  Garrison looked me in the eyes once again. “I didn’t kill all those people. I know everyone thinks I did but I only killed some of them.”

  “Fourteen people were found either shot or cut.”

  “Right. I shot people with a gun. I didn’t cut anyone. Someone else did that shit.” Garrison rubbed his runny nose and then sniffed.

  “What about the other victims around town? The ones killed by The Doctor?”

  His smile widened. I should have known an answer to my question wasn’t coming next. “I hear Asians don’t shave down below. You got a bush?”

  “I do. Now, why did you move away from cutting your victims to shooting them?”

  “I told you already. Fuck! I didn’t cut anyone that day at the bank and I didn’t cut any of those other people before that either.” Garrison relaxed his posture a bit before asking, “Is it big?”

  “Is what big?”

  “Your bush,” he said like an embarrassed teen.

  “It’s bushy. Do you like that?”

  He nodded.

  “Keep talking Blade; I might keep answering.”

  Garrison closed his eyes as he sma
cked his lips. He appeared to have gone off into fantasyland. I wanted to slap that stupid grin off his face and then shove it down his throat. I mouthed over to Wilkinson, “He’s thinking of you.”

  From that point on, Garrison walked me through what happened that day at the bank without any interruptions. He and his girl had plans to rob the place but it went wrong. He admitted to shooting some of the hostages but someone else in the building sliced the others. He couldn’t figure out who did it. Eventually that person killed his girl. That’s when he lost it and started shooting all the hostages as payback, thinking if he killed them all, he would get his revenge.

  At first, I thought Garrison was lying, but I believed what he said about his girlfriend. I didn’t think he killed her. Maybe there was someone else. Perhaps our copycat?

  “So you have no idea who else was killing the hostages?”

  “I narrowed it down to this one business dude.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Will you let me eat you out if I tell you?”

  My partner couldn’t take Garrison’s off-the-cuff comments any longer. “Watch it, asshole.”

  Garrison turned to him. “What? You think you’re the only one who likes Chinese?”

  Wilkinson shot from his seat and grabbed Garrison, slamming his head down onto the table. “This is your last warning.”

  I quickly pulled Wilkinson off. Garrison’s remarks were uncalled for but nothing I couldn’t ignore. I did appreciate Wilkinson’s concern, though.

  “What the fuck, dick?” Garrison shouted. “Remember, you guys wanted to talk to me.”

  I struck the table with my palm a few times. “Blade, focus! I’m asking the questions. What happened to the businessman?”

  Garrison slowly turned his head to me, his eyes the last to follow. “I fucking shot him. He was the last one I took out before I was taken down.”

  “What about the two hostages that survived? Why not suspect them?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t seem the type. The business guy was cocky. But if I had the time, I would have shot those last two as well. My girlfriend was dead and everyone else needed to pay.”

  The metal door creaked and caught our attention. It swung open and the same corrections officer appeared, signaling the end to our time. Garrison realized the same thing and started with a barrage of sexual questions, hoping I would indulge him and provide more fodder for his playtime then I already regrettably had.

  “Come on. Show me it. Really quick.”

  The corrections officer piped up. “Shut up, Garrison, or else I’m throwing you in the hole.”

  Right before they exited, Garrison opened his mouth once more. I honestly don’t know what he said. All I know is I heard the “C” word and it set me off. I exploded across the room and pinned him up against the wall. I tiptoed up to his ear and whispered. “You know, if you had said please instead of calling me that name, I would have gladly shown it to you.”

  The look on Garrison’s face was priceless. I could hear him yelling, “Please!” over and over as he was led away.

  14

  Dennis Walters had developed a routine that he rarely deviated from. Every day he left his office at 5:00 p.m. His administrative assistant had learned not to schedule anything that would keep him later. As a young executive, he worked tirelessly, but he was nearing retirement and didn’t feel like he needed to be the first one in and the last one out. He had paid his dues.

  Dennis had been a car guy his entire life. Since the age of twenty-two, he had worked his way up the ranks at GM until he was the CFO. Not bad for a farm kid from Kentucky.

  He thought he had the best job because he actually loved cars. He already knew he would spend his retirement rebuilding the classics. Fixing up a red 1960 Chevy Impala hooked him a few years back. He cherished that car and reserved it for Sunday drives with the wife.

  As Dennis Walters neared his driveway, he saw that the gate was open. Remember to call the maintenance guy. He parked behind a silver SUV and thought Irene must have company, most likely one of the ladies from the Junior League. She had gotten involved with them ten years ago and had loved helping out ever since.

  He heard music playing the moment he walked through the front door. It sounded familiar but he couldn’t recall the name of the singer. Nonetheless, it put him in an extra happy mood. He headed to where they kept the stereo system. “Irene, I’m home.” But the sitting room was empty. Dennis tilted his head as he gave the room a once over. Weird. It was unlike his wife to leave music playing.

  “Irene?” He tried once more—still no answer. He put his briefcase down near an end table, where he noticed a CD cover—Etta James. That’s the one. He listened for a bit longer. He tapped a foot and let his head bob a bit before heading towards the kitchen. That’s where he bumped into Preston Carter, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

  “Oh, hello. I didn’t think anyone was in here,” Dennis said. He was a bit taken aback. His jaw hung half open as he looked around. “Are you a friend of Irene’s?”

  “I am. You must be Dennis,” Preston said as he extended his hand across the granite-topped island between them. “I’m Preston Carter.”

  Dennis’ face relaxed a bit as he took a few steps forward and shook the smiling stranger’s hand. “Any idea where my wife might be?”

  “She stepped out to the garage for a second,” Preston said pleasantly. He chuckled. “It must look strange coming home to find someone you don’t know helping himself to your orange juice.”

  Dennis clasped his hands together and flashed a smile. “Can’t say that I’ve had this experience before. Are you with the Junior League?”

  “I’ve heard a lot about them,” Preston said as he reached up to the copper pot rack above them and removed a large cast iron skillet. “But no, I’m not with them. I’m with another organization that your wife had the pleasure of getting involved with not too long ago. It’s called the I’m-Here-to-Fucking-Kill-You League.”

  15

  When Preston arrived home later that evening, his ears sensed something was amiss. It was quiet. A house with two young boys is never quiet.

  He entered by the door in the garage that led him through the laundry room. He stopped just before entering the hallway and listened. He didn’t hear a gunfight between the Cowboys and the Indians or Harry Potter whizzing around on a broom. In fact, there was not a single sound that suggested the kids were home. Strange. He removed his shoes and moved silently through the carpeted hallway.

  Preston peeked into the kitchen and saw his wife unloading the dishwasher. He walked on his tippy toes, careful not to give away his presence until he stood right behind her. He reached around her waist with both arms and pulled her against him, planting playful kisses along her neck.

  Katherine squealed in delight as she fought to escape his grasp while his thumbs continued tickling both sides of her rib cage. She eventually turned herself around.

  “Preston, stop. I can’t take it!” she shouted, almost out of breath.

  He let up and pulled her in for a long kiss before looking at his wife’s eyes and quickly ribbing her once more. It took Katherine a few breaths to calm down.

  “Where are the boys?” he asked.

  “The Pipers’. Marcus invited them to a sleepover.”

  Preston raised an eyebrow and cocked his head slightly. “That means we have the house to ourselves tonight.”

  Katherine giggled more. “Yes. Did you have something in mind?”

  Preston lifted his wife up by her behind as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She could already feel him growing. He turned around and walked out of the kitchen. One by one he climbed the stairs, while he tongued her neck.

  “Mmm, don’t stop.” Katherine enjoyed his tenderness for a bit more before asking how it went.

  “You naughty girl, you. Want to know what Daddy did, do you?”

  Preston kicked the master bedroom door open and laid his wife down on the bed.
In between kisses, he told her all about Irene and how nice she was, until she realized how nice he wasn’t. “You should’ve seen the fear in her eyes,” Preston whispered devilishly into his wife’s ear.

  “Don’t stop,” she said.

  Preston undid his belt buckle and unzipped his pants as Katherine reached inside and grabbed him. “You’re so thick.”

  He pushed her dress up over her hips and his fingers found their wet mark. “You’re so inviting. I don’t know who likes this kinky talk more.”

  “What else?” she asked, taking a deep breath as he entered her.

  “I hit her once, knocking her to the ground. Blood ran from her nose. Then I picked her up and hit her over and over,” he said, accenting his words with his thrusts.

  “She’s a tough one,” Katherine managed between breaths.

  “Not really. I knocked her out after the second hit. I just enjoyed hitting her.”

  “You devil. How about fucking me harder?”

  He was happy to oblige. “You’ll love what I did next. I took her into the garage and sat her in this beautifully-restored, American, classic car. Buckled her in the front seat as if she were waiting for a driver.”

  “Oh, God, don’t stop,” Katherine moaned.

  Preston increased his speed. “And then I cut her. You like that?”

  “Yes!”

  He grabbed Katherine’s hair and pulled. “Take it. Take it all, you slut.”

  “Yes, I love it. Don’t stop.”

  “The seats were white leather. I wish you could have seen it. When Dennis got home, I was in the kitchen pouring myself a cup of orange juice. Imagine that.”

  “Was he surprised to see you?”

  “Can you feel my balls slapping against you?”

  “Oh, yes. I want it bad. Stick it in my ass,” she ordered.

  Preston stopped and flipped his wife over onto her stomach. He spread her cheeks and licked her ready. Then he slid inside.