by Jason Deas
They drove fifteen hours one way in their old truck on the day planned. Arriving on the outskirts of Atlanta, they rented a cheap motel room and removed their license plate, replacing it with a cardboard sign that said “tayg stowd.” Inside the motel room, they both bathed and Frederick shaved. He put on a suit and tie while Mattie put on a dress and some makeup. They pinched every penny for a year to afford their costumes. When they walked out of the room, they looked like a completely different couple.
They had planned and repeatedly practiced their routine once inside the hospital and how they would divert the attention of the workers. An hour later, they headed home with their new baby. They were two miles down the road before anybody knew what happened.
Dressed once again in their normal clothes, they were invisible to the police who were looking for a well-dressed man and woman. It took a total of thirty-two hours round trip, during which time neither of them slept. Upon their arrival home, Mattie and Fredrick stayed up an additional four hours until the adrenaline finally left their bodies.
Fred’s childhood was anything but normal. He never heard his parents speak, saw a television, or attended a school. He learned sign language from his parents, but their simple lives gave way to a limited signing vocabulary, one partially invented by the two.
His main language was silence and the sounds of mountains. He could make sounds, but more often than not chose not to, because he had no need for these sounds. His father couldn’t read, but his mother did the best she could to teach him what little she knew.
On his fifth birthday, his father took him to town for the first time and bought him a tape recorder from a thrift store and a handful of tapes out of the fifty-cent bin. Not knowing how to read he had no idea what he was buying. Four of the tapes were music and one was a book on tape.
Frederick’s intention was to give little Fred the opportunity to hear the English language and learn to speak. He and Mattie had discussed getting him a radio, but living where they did, they didn’t know if they would pick up any signals. Unable to hear themselves, they would not know if they had it on a station or not.
Fred listened to those tapes hundreds of times apiece. After his first trip to town, he would not let his father leave home without him. Each time they went into town, Fred would beg for more tapes.
Every so often when money was not too tight, his father would let him pick a few more out of the bin. Fred loved the tapes so much that even when his father said no, he managed to hurry over to the thrift store and steal as many as he could get into his pockets.
Because of his odd behavior and speech, people tended to ignore him and getting the tapes was easy. By the age of ten, he had nearly a hundred tapes and spoke like a two year old.
He never excelled in reading past the kindergarten level. He even had difficulty saying his own name, which he pronounced, “Red.” William James Baker, of the Baker family fortune, became Fred Jasper and then simply became Red.
Chapter 10
Tilley, Georgia had two motel choices. One was for lake visitors and those desiring comfort and cleanliness. These folks were willing to pay three times the fee of the other establishment advertising $34.99, double occupancy. The other establishment was intended for motorists simply passing through town, needing a place to rest road-wearied heads.
The first choice, The Lakeside Motor Inn was first class. The second choice, The Tuck ‘Em Inn, was a seedy dive, the type some checked out of an hour or so after they checked in. Housekeeping changed the sheets and oftentimes the desk clerk rented these same rooms again later in the day. This is where R.C. made his home for two hundred and ten dollars a week.
He thought the weekly rate was fair. He chose a room on the bottom floor at the end of the building. He figured he would be back in prison in two weeks tops. He estimated his available funds would cover the room and groceries for that short amount of time. He decided to fund any unexpected expenditures with the sale of the motorcycle.
R.C. spent his first day in Tilley resting. He slept mostly and unpacked his few belongings. While working at the diner, he had bought a few pairs of plain pants and shirts from a second hand store. He knew he would soon be back in a navy or orange jumpsuit, depending on the prison where he would spend his remaining days.
He checked, as was his habit daily, to see the ancient letter was still safely between the pages of his lone book. Some days he read it; other days he simply fingered the tissue soft paper.
Every day, sometimes two and three times a day, depending on his mood, he held the letter and envisioned his vengeance.
On his second day in Tilley, well rested and unable to sleep, he began walking late at night. He stuck to the streets. Tilley was still a quiet, post-murder town. There weren’t many cars on the roads after midnight and the few that were didn’t see R.C. as he slid into the woods or heavy brush lining the roadways to avoid raising suspicions of his new habit.
From the shadows, he saw the hidden side of Tilley. Every town, no matter how small has its nocturnes. He saw domestic arguments that spilled outdoors and heard the sounds of fights slip into the night air.
One lucky morning he heard a female voice screaming to her maker in ecstasy.
He saw and while seeing he looked for Miles. He decided once he found him he would watch him for a time. He would play the part of the grim reaper, knowing he held Miles’s life in his hands. The moment of death was his for the choosing unless someone or something got to him first.
R.C. was confident he would be the one to push him across death’s finish line.
The moon was full on the fortunate morning he spotted his target. Miles was slinking around after a late night at work. It only took R.C. a day-and-a-half to find him through phone inquiries.
In such a small town it would have regularly taken about three minutes, but halfway through R.C.’s second day of puzzling, he discovered while trying to connect some seemingly disjointed pieces of information, that Miles had changed his name somewhere along the way.
Needing a visual to confirm his findings he stalked with a newspaper, sunglasses, two different hats, and forty-seven cigarettes.
With the sunglasses long put away, his heart leaped as Miles exited the place from which his paycheck originated. It was him. Of course, he had aged, but at half the rate of R.C.’s deteriorating body. R.C. recognized the fact as he stealthily glanced over each shoulder as his feet hit the street.
Miles got in his car. Before the door shut and locked, R.C. had his license plate memorized. He drove about a block. R.C. followed his tail lights like a hawk. Miles suddenly pulled the car off the road behind a thick piece of brush.
As R.C. hurriedly walked in the direction of the extinguished lights, he did not hear the car door shut, but he did see his prey cross the road and disappear on the other side. He too disappeared, still following.
Chapter 11
The next day, the check from Mrs. Clemmons arrived in the mail to Benny’s surprise. He drove to the bank and deposited the funds, keeping fifty dollars cash. He decided to purchase a few items at the local record store. Benny still called them records although they were actually compact discs. Old habits seem to die hard.
He was tired of the radio’s limited song rotation and he couldn’t stomach another word from the talkers on the a.m. dial. He decided if he wanted to hear bitching and moaning he could always call his ex.
A hippy burnout suspended in time named Larry owned and ran the hole-in-the-wall music store. He knew very little about the new music on the scene, but carried it anyway because the sales kept his business afloat.
Larry looked like a stereotypical comic book conventioneer. He wore a well-worn untucked black tee shirt with a guitar printed on the front, which was fading and crackled. Above the guitar, lettered in white it read, “I have an ax to grind with you.”
Without discernment for the time of year, seasons, or outdoor temperatures, Larry wore knee low shorts, dark socks, and Converse shoes of some fla
vor.
Benny secretly thought he looked like a fat billy goat. Larry’s facial hair was braidable and patchy; one expected to see moles at the bottom of each patch. It was obvious to all they were itchy little buggers because he was always scratching with his ridiculous, hideously long curly fingernails.
Benny wondered if they would harm his comic books, if he had any. Benny had never asked if he had any comic books and it had yet to come up in conversation. When Benny walked in, he smelled patchouli and heard Jim Morrison’s voice caressing the air.
He was the only customer in the store and Larry was nowhere in sight. Way to go, Larry. Like I can’t smell the pot out on the street. Just as he thought this, Larry popped his head out of the door leading to the back with his mouth closed tight and gave a hand signal to Benny that translated into, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Five or so minutes later, Larry floated into the room saying, “Hey Benny man, I was just in the back doing some paper work.”
“Sure Larry,” Benny chuckled. “Working with those really tiny papers, huh?”
“You got me Benny; you should be an investigator or something.” Larry’s habits made him unable to be funny when he wanted to and hysterically funny when he wasn’t trying.
“What are you looking for today, Benny?”
“I was thinking about trying something new this go around Larry. What do you think?”
Larry thought for a moment and said, “You need to add some more Dylan to your collection.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call that new. What do you suggest?”
Larry pulled a couple of compact discs out of the fancy milk crate dividers and rung Benny up with an ear-to-ear smile.
“If you don’t like those,” Larry began, “I’ll give you that money back.”
Benny took the discs, turned towards the door and said, “How could Bob do me wrong, brother?” He walked out the door and Larry headed towards the back room.
With Dylan crooning through his speaker system, Benny headed to the boat to check his messages, mail, and to take a possible nap. No such luck. He played his one message, which was from Vernon that solely said, “Call me now.”
Benny scrambled for the phone and dialed the number as fast as his fingers would let him.
Vernon was in such a rush he couldn’t even get out an entire hello and answered, “Lo.”
Sensing the worst, Benny asked cautiously, “What now?”
“Another body.” There was a pause before he said, “Goddammit all.”
“Where are you?”
“Hank’s Bar and Grill.”
“Be there in ten.” Benny threw the phone on the couch and ran out the door and down the dock.
Officer Andy Mandelino was guarding the front door. He informed Benny that Vernon was waiting for him inside. From the look on the officer’s face, Benny surmised he had been inside. His blood-drained face and empty stare told Benny that something special awaited his viewing.
Hank’s Bar and Grill was a Jimmy Buffet kind of hangout with more bar than restaurant. Rafts, fishing nets, poles, and fake anchors hung from the ceilings and walls. A large stage for live music took up one side of the restaurant. It was filled with musical and sound equipment. Microphones and stands, speakers, a drum set, endless feet of wires, and a grand piano filled the stage.
Taking in the scene, Benny thought their silence was deafening. Vernon stood stage left. He examined the scene, frozen with disbelief.
“What in the wide world of fuck happened here?” Benny asked as he approached the scene.
“You can say that again,” Vernon commented.
“What in the wide world of fuck happened here?”
“Thanks, smart ass,” Vernon quipped. “Do you have any other cases going Benny?”
“A couple.”
“Cancel them and start me a tab, will you?”
“I’ll do it.”
The main lights in the bar were turned off. A spotlight threw a circle of brilliant white around the grand piano. Benny’s eyes pierced through the tremendous light. He stood still as his eyes inspected and his mind processed. Vernon remained silent.
The victim was a male. Benny guessed to himself he was at least ten years older than the first victim. The body sat on the piano bench, slumped over, with the face of the corpse resting, profile revealed, against the piano’s keys. His left hand was glued to the keys. The victim’s right hand hung down towards the floor and had a tambourine stitched into his palm. Drawn on the face of the tambourine was a star.
The crime scene at Hank’s Bar and Grill offered few clues. There was not a fingerprint, shoeprint, fiber, or jacksnipe discovered, besides the obvious strangulation. Vernon and Benny pored over the site searching for traces of anything; the search resulted in very little.
The killer was obviously well versed in crime scene methodology. The middle aged, soft looking male melding with the grand piano reminded Benny of a Salvador Dali painting.
When the coroner arrived, she and her crew pulled the body away from the piano to put it in a body bag. Luckily, the glue had not fully dried and his hand pried easily from the keys.
With the body removed, the piano revealed a message written across the keys. It read, “Rock & Roll,” with each letter written on a single white key. Vernon and Benny noticed it immediately and without even seeming to think Benny said, “Rock and Roll Star.”
“What?” Vernon asked.
“The star on the tambourine,” Benny said, as he pointed to the right palm. “The killer is trying to tell us Rock and Roll Star for some reason.”
“What in the wide world of fuck?” Vernon said.
“Now you’re catching on,” Benny assured. “What’s that smell?”
“Maybe he shit his pants.”
“I think it’s time for us to go.”
“All right. Benny, you sure you want to go along for the ride on this case?” Vernon reached an arm up and massaged his neck.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Benny answered, as he winked at Vernon and walked out of the room.
Chapter 12
At the age of fifteen, Red’s father died. Not able to hear a piece of malfunctioning farm equipment cost him his life. Red buried him as his mother looked on in sorrow. For seven years, Red took on the role of man-of-the-house. He kept their accustomed amount of currency coming into the home.
He kept the same contacts in town he knew through his father. Red sold crops and took care of his mother the best he could. During Red’s twenty-second year his mother came down with a bout of pneumonia from which she never recovered. On her deathbed, Red felt she struggled from more than just the pneumonia.
Moments before she succumbed, she relieved herself of her heaviest burden. From under her bed, she directed Red to retrieve a wooden box. With the box in her hands, she took one of her final breaths and unlatched the clasp that held the lid tightly closed. Opening the box, inlaid with a red velvet material, she removed an old newspaper clipping and placed it in Red’s hands. She pointed to the picture in the newspaper with tears falling from her eyes and pointed to Red. Her hands slid away from his, down to her sides, and she passed.
Red buried his mother beside his father. He had the newspaper clipping in his jeans pocket and he felt it burning there as he shoveled the last bits of earth to cover his parents for eternity. Red knew there was something special waiting for him in that piece of paper, but laying his mother to rest was his priority.
With his task completed, Red retreated to his room, put on his favorite tape, and took out the newspaper article. As the tape player reeled off a familiar song, Red opened the clipping to see a picture of a young woman crying. A young man, face crushed with grief, held her. They sat in the back seat of a black car departing the foyer of a large building.
Red sensed desperation in the photograph. The headline read, “Baker Baby Kidnapped.” Red knew something was amiss. The heading meant very little to him, but the photo of the two tortured souls set
off an internal alarm in Red that told him to search and find answers.
Red had little money but knew where his mother hid her cash. She had a small amount and he folded the bills together and gathered all the coins he could find around the house, weighing down his pockets. His head swirled as his body pulled him through the house on a mission that was led by an unexplained force. The farmhouse, truck, and equipment were rented monthly. Abandoning them didn’t really matter.
Red gathered up his tape collection, tape player, and a few of his personal items. He walked down the dirt road and away from the only home he had ever known.
The newspaper clipping mentioned Atlanta. Red had enough money to make it to a town outside of Atlanta, with a little cash left over to knock around for a couple of days, hopefully making a couple of bucks.
He hopped on a bus with a skinny, running dog on the side and nineteen hours later, exhausted and frightened by the foreign world, he stepped off the bus in the town of Tilley.
Chapter 13
Benny’s boat was not decorated as though it was a weekender’s paradise. The houseboat contained a gallery of art and furniture exhibiting exquisite taste. A majority of the houseboats on the lake contained foam couches, press wood or plastic tables, and other mismatched flea markets finds. The walls that were not bare in the other boats displayed neon signs and beer banners.
Benny’s houseboat was well equipped with a leather couch, matching love seat, a single rocker accompanied by an ottoman, and a table that would turn many interior decorators green. Benny purchased the table during an estate sale resulting from one of his homicide cases. There was a small amount of blood on one of the bench seats, which greatly reduced the price.
To further spruce up the place, Benny replaced the standard putting green carpet with short shag. Sitting anywhere on the boat, the fact that one was on a boat was undetectable, aside from a slight rocking.