by Susan May
Last month she’d written an article on fantastic foods for your eyes. Popular wisdom was that eating carrots was good for your eye health. Through her research, Kendall discovered oranges were better. Kale and black-eyed peas, too. Next time she shopped, she’d stock up on oranges. Glasses not necessary.
Kendall made a mental note to track down a chef to interview for recipes using black-eyed peas—a trick she used when wanting to know something for her own benefit. She’d come up with an article idea then research who she needed to track down for the answer. In this way, asking questions that she wanted answered also paid her.
Throwing down the codeine, she swigged from the water bottle she always kept on her bedside table. She picked up her partner in crime—her iPhone—lying beside the bottle and began her ritual of first-thing-upon-wakeup tasks.
She lived on the phone. Emails and messaging mainly. While her friends used theirs for Facebook, Twitter, and Candy Crush, hers was an all in one secretary, coach, and timekeeper.
“What’s happening today, buddy? What’s on our schedule?”
She opened her mail app. Within a few seconds her inbox filled with thirty-two messages. Many were junk. That’s your reward for signing up at too many websites in the name of research. The others were from business acquaintances, friends, and daily Google alerts on subjects she followed for possible articles.
This morning, she was looking for particular messages, ones with the heading: “Article Needed Urgently” or “Yes—go ahead” or “More Work.” Anything that was income creating with a capital “I.”
Work had slowed lately. She’d pitched dozens of articles in the past few weeks, but this month, being the end of the fiscal year, meant budgets were mostly exhausted. Urgent last-minute articles were all she was being sent. Work had dried up to only an article or two a day. This happened every year at this time, and every year Kendall panicked. It was silly, really. By the end of March her inbox would fill with so much work, she was awake until one or two in the morning to meet deadlines.
After checking all the emails, she found only two article requests. One she’d pitched months ago and was only for three hundred words, hardly paying anything. Another was from a women’s magazine she only wrote for when desperate. They always paid late and their editor had no sense of humor, removing any witty asides in her articles.
“House style, please, Kendall!”
Kendall closed the email app, relieved she at least had some work, but downhearted it wasn’t enough to even cover her weekly expenses. The next few hours would be spent coming up with pitch ideas. Not as easy as it sounds when you’ve freelanced for eight years.
She checked the time on her phone—seven fifteen. Fifteen minutes before she needed to get up. Technically, she didn’t need to physically be anywhere. She treated her weekdays, though, as if she needed to be at an office by eight thirty. She’d learned a long time ago freelancing required the discipline of a job. Like any job, you needed to turn up.
Her commute was the thirty steps from her bedroom to her study via a small, combined kitchen-dining area. On the way, she’d get a strong, black coffee and some toast.
Kendall threw on her work clothes—casual, thank you. A tracksuit in winter with scarf and wooly socks. In summer, shorts, tank top and flip-flops.
Her first task, once at her desk was to check the news sites, a necessary business ritual that occasionally supplied her with good material to spin into a story. Having an eye for an angle was her greatest skill.
“Something interesting, please,” she prayed as the news site loaded.
When the lead heading came up, she gasped. The word for the news wasn’t interesting.
Horrifying. Terrifying. Those words sprung into her mind. Then: How could this happen?
Chapter 3
WHEN KENDALL FIRST READ THE bolded heading on the “Breaking News” web page, she gasped. When she’d prayed for interesting news, she didn’t mean anything like this.
Café Attack in Lygard Street
Seven Dead. Three Critical.
Lygard Street was very nearby her apartment block. As she read the article, Kendall realized it was Café Amaretto. Occasionally she’d grab a coffee there; they had the best tiramisu this side of the city. Reading on, she suddenly lost her taste for tiramisu; in fact, her appetite was gone, period.
A crazed psycho had entered the restaurant through the back door and killed several staff, unlucky enough to be in the kitchen. Then he’d headed into the dining area and attacked diners. Kendall’s hand went to cover her mouth. My god, he used an axe to kill them. An axe!
That was too barbaric. What was happening in the world when things like this occurred in such a peaceful place? This neighborhood was home to mostly thirty-something professionals like her and retired the-kids-are-gone-and-we’ve-downsized people. It wasn’t home to axe murderers.
She Googled Café Amaretto looking for more information on the killings, but all the links were just copies of the same article with no new information. Involuntarily, her body shivered at the thought of the crime’s proximity.
Kendall stood and walked back into the kitchen to make a herbal tea. Something to calm her nerves, like chamomile. She wished she’d stayed in bed instead of waking up to this. Forget the lack of work. This trumped everything. A terrible tragedy in her neighborhood that, if not for fate, might have found her involved.
What a way to start a day.
Chapter 4
LANCE O’GRADY LOOKED OVER AT his partner, Trip Lindsay, and said, “This is not the way to start a day.
They hadn’t been to bed yet, so technically this day had started yesterday. They’d attended the Café Amaretto murder scene late last night. The last time he’d checked, thirty minutes and two strong black coffees ago, it was still only around seven in the morning.
Since this had begun, they’d spent four hours at the crime scene, answered over twenty inquiries and phone-in leads, and had two update meetings with their sergeant, with more to come. By Lance’s estimates, they would still be here until six tonight with everything they needed to do to keep the police commissioner and the mayor happy.
Everything they’d learned so far, made the crime cut and dried to him. Lunatic walks into a popular Italian restaurant and goes berserk with an axe. Out go seven bodies, with at least one survivor currently in intensive care probably about to make it a tally of a neat round eight. To say that he’d never seen anything like the bloody scene he’d walked into last night was not just an understatement, it missed the spot by a million miles.
So far, they understood little of what set the guy off. All they knew was bank clerk Toby Benson decided to hack his way through the rear entrance of Café Amaretto. Once in, he sliced and diced three of the staff in the kitchen, then took to patrons in the dining room simply enjoying a meal. No provocation and, so far, no claims of association with any terrorist groups.
Police arrived at the café approximately six minutes after the event began, thanks to several mobile calls from terrified patrons. Benson then decided to take a swing at the officers. Of course, the size of his axe was irrelevant. Guns trump axe pretty much every time. So their Friday the 13th wannabe ended up as the repository of a dozen bullets and just as dead as his unfortunate victims.
Everybody from O’Grady’s boss to the mayor to the goddam president (if the already churning rumor mill could be believed) wanted to know how this could happen. This not-easily-answered question landed on his and Trip’s plate to figure out. The police commissioner demanded answers yesterday because the PR minions wanted everything tied up in a neat little bow for the six o’clock news.
Even though there was an investigating team, the responsibility for managing the investigation fell on Trip’s and his shoulders. As senior detectives of the city’s smallish major case unit—small because these types of crime didn’t usually happen in their city—it was expected they pull all-nighters. Only a few hours in, those responsibility-carrying shoulder
were already weary.
With the killer as dead as his victims, the only urgency O’Grady saw was in giving the mayor something to calm the public. If the mayor had a little patience and foresight—which he clearly lacked—he’d find the next bad news story blowing in, would cause the public to quickly forget this.
It never took Joe Public long to move to the next news sensation. Downed airliners, earthquakes in China, tsunamis killing tens of thousands, or myriad of disasters that trotted across the news bulletins regularly, all of them were always replaced by the next big headline.
“Are you ready?” said Trip. “The sooner we get out door knocking, the sooner we get some sleep. I’ve gotten hold of Benson’s boss at the bank. He’ll see us just after eight. Then I think a visit to Benson’s apartment in case CSI missed something.”
O’Grady stood, pulling his jacket from the back of his chair.
“As ready as I’ll ever be on no-hours sleep. Did you see one of the vics was celebrating his birthday? Some birthday present, right?”
O’Grady shook his head.
Trip sighed at the comment. His mouth sagged as he ran his hand over his sleek, shiny head, adorned with nothing but moisturizer.
“The guy had to be psychotic, or schizophrenic, or something with crazy in the subtitle. If we don’t find out which, we’re not getting the weekend off. Like the Sarge said, Average Joe needs a reason for these things to feel safe at night. I need the reason cause I got plans for the weekend. And they don’t involve work.”
O’Grady actually didn’t mind if he worked weekends. What else would he do? Outside of the job, he had little to occupy his time. No wife, few friends. What was left of his family were all out on the coast.
Trip continued to muse aloud on the case and why Benson would go crazy in that particular restaurant. O’Grady’s partner talked a great deal, most of the time speaking out loud what seemed was every idea that floated through his mind. The fact O’Grady only responded every now and then didn’t seem to faze Trip.
O’Grady preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. After what happened to his brother, he’d learned zipping it was a safer way to live. The less people knew about you, the better. After three years as partners, Trip knew only as much as O’Grady cared to reveal. His partner seemed content with that. More opportunity for Trip to talk, O’Grady figured.
As they exited the building, they passed the arriving day shift staff. O’Grady threw out a few hellos and nodded to others. Mostly he kept his head down to avoid engagement. Trip smiled and greeted everyone who passed them.
Already O’Grady’s thoughts were focused on Toby Benson. Something didn’t sit right. Something itched in that place in his mind where the bullshit net was positioned; a mild flaring he just couldn’t settle.
CSI had done their preliminary sweep of Benson’s apartment. They discovered nothing. Hard to believe. Nothing, no evidence, was wrong. Unexpected. When someone commits a crime, even less savage than this, there are always indicators in his or her life pointing to issues that spun out of control. Big red, flashing signs blinking: “This person is dynamite just waiting for a match.”
So far, this Benson seemed like just an average guy. Had a girlfriend; several smiling pictures of her and him dotted his apartment, CSI had informed. Had a stable job at a bank—a check of the website LinkedIn told them he’d been employed there five years. He’d lived in Danbridge all his life. Plenty of friends. From Facebook they’d gleaned his interactions and attitudes appeared normal.
Yet on a cool early-winter Sunday evening, he left his home prepared with a weapon, drove into the city, targeted a restaurant—for what reason, they were yet to ascertain—and had a swing-the-axe party.
As much as O’Grady wanted this to be a suicide-by-cop show, his itch told him it might turn out to be something quite different. He didn’t know what, and he didn’t know why. That bothered him.
O’Grady climbed into the front passenger seat next to Trip, who had launched into a dissection of a recent baseball game where his home team—according to him—was robbed by the umpire. Things like this mass killing didn’t seem to invade his head. He treated the job like a job.
Not O’Grady. He needed to solve the crimes. In doing so it temporarily filled something missing in him, which no amount of women—whom he soon forgot—or phone calls home could satisfy. The emotional impact of the scene last night had left him drained. He looked ahead to when he could clock off, hit the sack, and get some dearly needed shut-eye. Hopefully, today would end better than it started.
But this damn itch in his gut still bothered him. Maybe sleep might reveal the answer. He hoped the answer would be simple and obvious and happen soon. One thing about Lance O’Grady, he didn’t like loose ends.
Chapter 5
KENDALL SHOWERED AND CHANGED INTO her work gear—tracksuit pants, a t-shirt, and fleecy sweater. The chilly winter wind seeped inside, and the heater couldn’t compete, even on full blast. The dilapidated thing, on its last legs, only warmed the air within a few feet.
After filling her bowl with her usual cereal, Raisin Bran topped with Cheerios, she nestled into the chair at her desk. Kendall surveyed the mess piled there: scraps of paper, books, and an assortment of dirty coffee cups ranging from one to four days old. She vowed to work on mustering the energy to tidy up. Once she’d booked a few jobs and removed the money stress, she’d attack it. The time had better be soon, though, or she’d be drinking coffee out of jars.
Tomorrow.
Right now, she needed to check her email again, and Twitter and Facebook. She’d found social media a handy way to gauge public mood. Beyond short on filling her twelve-story quota for the week, besides sending out queries, she would need to write pieces on spec in the hope an editor might have last-minute space to fill.
Slurping her coffee from the very last clean cup, she scanned the home page of The Western. Horrific pictures of the Amaretto Café massacre, complete with upturned tables and a blood-streaked floor, were spread across and down the page. Three victims’ pictures were front and center, with the names of other casualties still to be released.
Looking at devastating photos of a place she’d visited often made her skin prickle. She looked over the main article again, which proclaimed it the worst mass murder in the city’s history. A picture of the killer Toby Benson was front and center. He looked like an average guy. Dark, short-cropped hair and the type of smile that said I’m friendly and I’m kind to my grandma.
Kendall hypothesized he’d lost it because either his mother had neglected him or his girlfriend had just dumped him. Or box number three: he’d forgotten to take his meds.
The news article gave no information about him, except that he worked at a bank and his family and girlfriend were in shock, finding it impossible to believe he could kill anyone or anything.
Kendall noticed an email subject header flash at the bottom of her screen. The message was from Stef, the editor of Healthy, Wealthy & Wisdom magazine. She’d built a good relationship with Stef over the past few years by always turning work in on schedule and never, ever saying “no” to a commission, no matter how much she had on her plate. The articles were sometimes internationally syndicated into several small newspapers, the syndication payments being a nice little cash-flow bump when they came.
She flicked from the news page to Outlook, after glancing again at the photo of Toby Benson’s smiling face. You sure couldn’t judge a book by its cover.
The email was short and to the point.
Kendall,
Need urgent 1,000-word rush piece on survivor guilt. Work to fit this lead: “How to live with not dying.” Mass killing from last night already covered by majors. This angle, good. Get interviews with any witnesses who’ll talk. Morning papers quoted a survivor. Beverly Sanderson. Get her and quotes from a psychologist. Will need within 24 hours to make deadline.
Stef
Kendall replied with a, “Yes, I’m on it” message. As she hit send, h
er mood lifted. Rush jobs rarely meant rush payments, but a thousand words with this mag would cover a chunk of the month’s rent if it scored syndication.
What didn’t thrill her, though, was possibly hearing the terrible details of the murders first hand from witnesses. Violence made her squeamish. Even those slasher-horror films made her feel sick. Usually, she would close her eyes while sticking her fingers in her ears; the sound of the viciousness and the screams almost too much. The only reason she even watched them was her brother; Marcus was a big Quentin Tarantino over-the-top-violent film fan. He kept telling her if she watched enough of them, she would “toughen up.” She still awaited that occurrence.
If Marcus actually took the time to read some of her articles, he’d see she was tough enough to write real horror—terrible heartbreaking articles. She’d covered everything from teen suicide to a baby boy killed by a drunk driver plowing through his bedroom wall. True life terror.
When it came to deliberate violence against others, she drew the line. Accidents she could handle, but it seemed too much like a slippery slope, flooding her mind with memories of ten years ago and her mom. Every time she thought about that night, her heart hardened against allowing herself to feel for anyone the love she felt for her mom. She felt empathy for people, but she didn’t desire closeness. She didn’t want to love someone and suffer having them torn away. She began to think about that night; she could smell the night air, hear the sounds in the darkness, feel the fear, the despair; her heart quickened.
No, she wouldn’t think about it now. Maybe one day, if the right person came along, she might trust herself to feel something again. Allow herself to feel something again. Right now she had bills to pay and a job to do.