by Mike Monson
Two police cars parked out front. Four cops walked inside. Well acquainted with Mr. Peele from many other arrests, they got out their Taser guns in order to subdue him enough to get him cuffed and into the back of one of the units right away. Otis Peele always resisted arrest.
“I told that bitch no police,” Peele said to the two policemen who drove him to the jail.
“What?” said the officer behind the wheel. “You mean to tell me that one of your ingenious schemes didn’t work out as planned? That’s a real shocker, Mr. Peele. Especially for a criminal mastermind like you.”
At about seven p.m., while Peele was booked into jail, exhausted Modesto Police Detective Hugh Murphy sat slumped at his desk at the station. He’d been woken up at four a.m. to go to the Del Rio crime scene and had spent all day at the Schmitz house supervising the investigation of the murders, the robbery, and the kidnapping of Jessica Schmitz.
Completely pissed, Detective Murphy hated what he’d seen all day long. The bodies of Terrence, Tyler, Ashley and Doris Schmitz. The tortured and ravaged body of Carl Schmitz. The now faceless body of private security guard Hugh Simms. Even the bloody corpses of known criminals Dan Briggs and Jack Dixon.
He hated all criminals, but he especially hated murderers. Found it inexplicably astounding that any human could be capable of the mayhem done to the Schmitz family. Then, the bastards had the gall to leave the whole mess behind for people like him to clean up. Just thinking about it made his face bright red. The bottled-up anger hurt so much he kept looking around for something or someone to take it out on. It frustrated him even more to know he had to live with the rage until he caught these animals.
Media attention to the Del Rio Massacre grew from local to national as more and more bloody details began to leak. The streets around the police station were crowded with news vans from all over—including CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News—with more arriving by the minute. Detective Murphy didn’t like working a case with the press looking over his shoulder. A junior detective during the investigation of the Laci Peterson murder ten years before, he had vivid memories of that circus.
They had nothing. Just eight dead bodies and a missing teenaged girl.
They identified Dixon and Briggs quickly. Both were recognized by police on sight. Because of the extent of the violence, Murphy knew more than one person had done the killing, before they stole an unknown amount of cash and valuables and kidnapped the daughter. It took more than one set of hands to create this kind of carnage.
They dusted the entire house for prints. None had been identified that weren’t from the Schmitz family. There were no witnesses and no useful physical evidence. The guns and knives, along with whatever electrical implement had been used to shock and torture Carl Schmitz, had all been taken from the house. The killers definitely knew what they were doing.
Seething with frustration and anger, Murphy pulled himself up from his chair and away from his desk. He’d done all he could do for one day and he decided to go home for a little bit of rest, determined to come back early the next day and work his ass off to find a break in the case.
Jessica was shocked when Marlene Huggley opened her front door. She looked at least ten years older than she did in her most recent videos. She was short, at least a head smaller than both her and Paige. Standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt with no make-up, she looked more like someone’s mother than a famous porn star.
“What’s the gun for?” Marlene asked Jeff as he walked in.
“Oh, you know,” he said with a wink. “Just in case. These hills are full of outlaws and crazies.”
“Not really.”
They reached the main living room. Jessica heard a TV blaring. Someone was talking about her parents’ house—a news anchor’s voice. Then, she heard Leann. She was sobbing and talking about her best friend, Jessica.
“Jesus,” Jeff said. “Turn that off. I don’t want to hear all that depressing shit.”
Marlene turned off the TV.
“God, I can’t stand fucking television.” Jeff put his arms around Paige and Jessica. “These are my new friends: Paige and her sister Jennifer.”
He pulled them both in closer.
“Aren’t they fucking awesome? And, ladies, say hello to the notorious Marlene Huggley. Hey, Marlene, Jennifer is one of your biggest fans. How do you like that shit?”
“Look, Jeff,” she said, “I’m not really up for a party right now.”
“Who said anything about a party? We just need a place to hang out for a couple of days. You don’t have any problem with that, do you?”
Marlene didn’t answer right away. She looked intently at Jessica and then straight at Jeff.
“No, I guess not.”
“Look, we’ve been up all night and driving all day, first thing we need is a place to sleep for a few hours.”
“Is anyone hungry?”
“No, nobody’s hungry” Jeff answered quickly. “Just point us to a bed.”
Marlene ushered her guests to a room with an oversized bed and matching mirror on the ceiling. Jessica tried to sneak glances at their host without Jeff noticing. She finally got a chance when Marlene showed Jessica the bathroom.
“Help me,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry.” Marlene whispered to Jessica from outside the doorway. “I know who you are. We’ll figure something out, okay? Trust me.”
“What are you two talking about?” Jeff said. He suddenly appeared in the hallway behind Marlene.
“Nothing,” Marlene said. “Just girl talk. She needs something to wear to bed and she isn’t really my size. I was telling her we’d figure something out.”
“Oh, how nice. You finish up now, Jennifer. Your sister wants you.”
Jessica finished peeing, washed up, and went back to the bedroom.
Marlene got a short silk nightgown and a matching robe from a hall closet and brought it to Jessica.
“Marlene,” Jeff said. “I’ve been telling Paige all about your dungeon.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes,” Paige said. “I’d love to see it.”
“It’s not something I really like to share with my guests,” Marlene said, with a nod toward Jessica. “It’s more of a work thing, you know?”
“But Jeff said you’d show it to me.”
“Oh, is that the sort of thing you are into? Leather and whips and chains?”
“You could say that. And I’m really into bondage, you know, restraints and shit?”
“Marlene’s got all that down there,” Jeff said. “She’s what you’d call an all-purpose porn star. She’ll do anything in front of the camera as long as she gets paid. Isn’t that right, Marlene?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.” Marlene’s tone was dry and guarded.
“She’ll get butt-fucked. She’ll strap on a dildo and butt-fuck someone else. Man or woman. She does it with men. She does it with women. She’ll do any disgusting thing you could imagine. She’ll play the cruel mistress or the pathetic submissive who gets tied up and whipped. Like I said, as long as she gets paid, she’ll be whoever you want her to be. It’s all just acting, right?”
She knew Jeff’s comments were sardonic, but she didn’t take the bait. “I’ve always felt my acting talents were underrated.”
“So, can I see it?” Paige said. “Can I see the dungeon? Now?”
“I thought you all were exhausted. Maybe this is something that could wait until tomorrow?”
“Paige hates to wait,” Jeff said, his smile turning into a cold stare. “Right, Paige?”
“It’s true. I have no patience. None.”
“Lead the way, Marlene,” Jeff said.
At the end of the hall, past the bathroom, was a small door. They followed Marlene through the door and downstairs into darkness. She turned on a light.
The windows on the back wall were covered with black paper. The window in the door to the garden had adjustable blinds in order to alter the lighting and the mo
od.
Jessica had watched some of Marlene’s BDSM videos, so the place had a familiar look. Leather whips of varying length, color, and thickness hung from the walls along with ropes, chains, and handcuffs. In the middle of the room stood a large black wooden chair with built-in round metal restraints for wrists and feet. In one corner was a large wooden cross also equipped with metal restraints. Beside it was a display case holding ball gags, leather collars, leashes, and a variety of leather masks.
“Oh wow,” said Paige. “This is so great.” She walked over to the chair and dragged her index finger slowly along the headrest. “Show me how this works.”
Jeff pushed Marlene toward the chair.
“Go on, Marlene. Sit down and show us. Don’t act like you don’t know how.”
Marlene didn’t move.
Jeff lightly touched the end of his pistol.
“Paige wants a demonstration. I suggest you sit the fuck down.”
Marlene sat in the chair.
“If I remember correctly,” Jeff said, bending down before her, “all you do it this … and this … and bam. Bitch is secure, bitch is restrained. Right, Marlene?”
Jeff had locked both arm and leg restrains on Marlene.
“Clever thing is,” he said, “as long as you aren’t secured, the locks here are easy to open and close, but for the person who is in the chair, there is no way out. Correct, Marlene? Can you move? Come on, let’s see you try to get out.”
Marlene struggled. Clearly, she could not move.
“Kind of hot, isn’t it Paige?” Jeff said.
“It’s very hot.”
“Get one of those ball gags and put it on her.”
Paige jammed a large red rubber ball roughly into Marlene’s mouth, then secured it tightly behind her neck with the leather straps.
“Wow,” Paige said, “this is so cool. I just knew I’d like staying here.”
“You see, Marlene,” Jeff said, “Paige is a switch. She loves to both give and receive punishment. Sort of like you, I guess. Except when she does it, she’s not acting.”
Marlene squirmed and grunted as Jeff led Paige and Jessica back upstairs.
Jessica slept that night between Paige and Jeff. She expected them to try something with her or to at least have sex with each other, but they both went straight to sleep with their arms draped across her chest. She lay awake a long time, looking down at herself from high above, from the mirror on the ceiling.
15
All through the night, Phil sat with his breath, feeling whatever arose in his body. Watching as image after image and thought after thought danced through his mind. He saw the tortured dead body of Carl Schmitz, pictured the bloody, thrilled face of Paige as she approached him to continue her sadistic, deadly pageant.
Hour after hour he sat. He breathed. He let go. As the sun rose, he felt all the sensations and feelings coursing through his body. His mind watched the thoughts and images rapidly go in and out of his consciousness. Knowing he had nothing more to lose, he steadily opened up to … everything. Life slowed down to a near stop. There was a remarkable stillness, an emptiness, that was like nothing, nothing, nothing.
He was nothing and he was everything. A blue jay sang. Phil looked at the bird and felt no separation. He was the bird and the bird was him. The bird flew away and he was the bird and he was flying. He looked at a tree. No separation. He was huge and strong and steady and rooted in the earth for hundreds of years. Like the pine trees all around him.
He looked up at the brightening sky. He was the sky and the sky was him. It was as if the top of his head blew off and all the energy of the universe rushed in to his brain, his spine, and then pulsated up and down, up and down, up and down.
He felt full.
Full of energy. Full of love. Full of joy.
He cried for the first time since he was a child. Letting the tears flow until there were none left.
He broke his posture. Looking around him as the sun illuminated the dirt and the trees and the rocks and the shrubs, he reached out his right hand and scooped up a handful of dirt. He let it fall between his fingers back to the earth.
Everything was different. Everything was the same.
He was Phil Gaines. He knew where he had to go. And what he had to do.
Detective Murphy got no sleep that night. When he arrived at his desk at five a.m., one of the officers who had arrested Otis Peele the night before was waiting for him.
“Please tell me you have something on the Schmitz house.”
“Sir, last night we booked Otis Peele for assault and attempted extortion over at the Red Devil Lounge,” Officer Hawthorne said.
“That sonofabitch? So what?”
“He was close with Briggs, you know.”
“And?”
“He says he has information on the Del Rio job.”
“Where is he?”
“Handcuffed to a chair in the big interview room downstairs.”
“So, what did he do at the Red Devil?”
“He tried to make Maddie Ferguson, the owner, pay him protection money.”
“Jesus. What a dumbass.”
“Yeah, right? This is his third felony so he wants to deal.”
Murphy followed Hawthorne down the hall to the stairs. When they reached the interrogation room, he looked through the one-way mirror at Peele. The big man sat there, looking smug and satisfied, as if he wasn’t one of the stupidest criminals in the San Joaquin Valley. Murphy wished he could go in there and beat Peele about for at least ten minutes. That might actually make him feel better.
Hawthorne handed him the paperwork on the Red Devil arrest, which he stuck in with the rest of Peele’s thick file.
Murphy quickly read through the report before going into the room.
“Mr. Peele.” Detective Murphy sat at the table directly across from Otis. “Are you, in fact, mentally retarded? Have you been diagnosed as developmentally disabled? Are you, technically, a moron?”
“I’m smarter than you’ll ever know, man.”
“I doubt that, Mr. Peele. Because, you know what? The longer I know you, the dumber you seem to get. This latest stunt you pulled is a perfect example. Didn’t anyone tell you that if you want to extort a business person, it has to be a business person who is weak? One that is isolated, alone, vulnerable and afraid? A business owner with no friends? Did you not carefully read the extortionist instruction manual?”
“I guess not.”
“No, I didn’t think so,” Murphy paused, sat back in his chair and continued. “Maggie Ferguson has friends. Lots of friends. And most of them are big tough biker knuckleheads just like you. See what I mean?”
“But …”
“Mr. Peele!”
“Yeah?”
“Are you a member of some powerful outlaw biker gang that we don’t know about?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly,” repeated Murphy. “I didn’t think so. It’s just you and a couple other jerkoffs, right?
“I’ve got friends.”
“Not enough. No way. Plus, guess what?”
“What?”
“We like her. The Modesto Police fucking loves Maddie Ferguson. Her brother, her uncle and her nephew are all members of this department. Didn’t you know that? She is family and we don’t ever want to see anything bad happen to her. See what I mean?”
“I guess so.”
“We love her so much we’re going to make sure you go to prison for the rest of your idiotic life. We’ve got a victim pressing charges. We have a dozen eye-witnesses ready and willing to testify. And these eye-witnesses are not afraid of a chickenshit sonofabitch like you.” Here Murphy paused and sighed. “What I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Peele,” Murphy leaned in and fixed his glare on Otis, “is that you better get yourself prepared to never again breathe the air as a free man.”
Murphy stood up from the table and turned toward the door.
“Wait,” Peele said. “Didn’t Hawthorn
e tell you?”
Murphy stopped, his back still to Peele. “Tell me what?”
“That I know who killed those people in Del Rio.”
Murphy turned and sat back down. “I’m listening.”
“Okay, look, before I talk, I need to know I’ll get a deal and that I’ll be protected somehow.”
“Talk first. We’ll deal later. Depending on the value of your information.”
Otis Peele looked at Detective Murphy. He seemed, surprisingly, deep in thought.
“Okay, so?” Murphy said. “Who did it?”
“Jeff Sweet.”
“Who?”
“Jeff Sweet. You never heard of him?”
“No.”
“How about his uncles, Boyd and Dale?”
“Boyd Sweet and Dale Sweet?”
“Right.”
“Yeah, I know those scumbags.”
“Or his daddy, Ryan? Killed up in Q about ten years ago?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He must’ve been before your time. Well, anyway, Jeff Sweet is a major player around here. Steals cars, robs banks, likes to fuck people up. Doesn’t mind killing a dude. Loves to use a knife.”
“Jeff Sweet?”
“That’s right.”
“Nephew of Boyd and Dale Sweet?
“You got it, man.”
“How come I’ve never heard of this guy?”
“’Cause the dude is one smart, vicious motherfucker.”
“Must be.”
“Oh, he is.”
Murphy was confused. Until now, he’d been sure that whoever had done this job would be someone local. Someone he knew.
“So he did this? By himself? He killed all those people and robbed the Schmitz house?”
“Along with Paige Gaines.”
“Wait. Who?”
“Paige Gaines. Foxy young chick. Has all this red hair. She’s married to Phil Gaines.”
“Phil Gaines? Who the fuck is that?”
“He’s a local bank robber. The one Jeff Sweet drives for. The other day Sweet stole Gaines’ wife, Paige. And all his money.”