The Butcher's Son

by Grant McKenzie

  “The kid’s better off in that box,” said Jersey, his voice cracking slightly. “The officer who found him is still on stress leave.”

  “Any chance of an arrest?”

  “Doubtful unless someone talks, and once word got out about what was done to the boy, nobody will. Poor tyke’s body wasn’t just a message to the father — it was also an introduction to a new player in town.”

  “Organized?”

  “Not in the way you mean. This is someone trying to muscle in. No connection that we know of to the founding fathers, bikers or the nouveau Russian and Chinese.”

  Ian watched the funeral crowd break apart and scatter. No doubt the brothers were planning to get shit-faced somewhere — everyone invited.

  Raise a glass, pipe or needle to my boy. His life was cut short, but fuck it, that’s depressing. Let’s party!

  The boy’s mother and her friend were the last to leave, although even from this distance it was easy to tell the friend was getting antsy. This was a difficult test of loyalty for her; she really wanted to join the party.

  “The bastard used his kid as collateral,” said Ian.

  “And then he fucked up,” added Jersey. “But we got nothing on him.”

  “That you can prove.”

  “Nothing that will stick, but assholes like him and his brother never get a happy ending. Let the law do its job and he’ll be back inside before long.”

  “That sounds like a warning,” said Ian.

  Jersey offered a wry smile. “Just friendly advice.”

  Getting to his feet, Jersey grabbed his umbrella and popped it open. The cheery color seemed even more garish in the gloom of the empty graveyard.

  “Feel like a burger?” Jersey asked. “I’m starving.”

  “Thanks, but Emily’s just over there.” Ian indicated a small copse of cherry trees on the other side of the hill. “She’d want me to visit.”

  “Want company?”

  Ian smiled in gratitude. “No, you’re OK. I prefer to be alone.”

  “No problem, but I’ve got a gig tonight if you feel like taking out some of that aggression in the mosh pit.”

  Jersey moonlighted as the drummer in a local punk band called The Rotten Johnnys. And although Ian stopped playing after his daughter’s death, he had once been an accomplished jazz guitarist. The two men first met at an after-hours gin joint where Jersey went to unwind after his own gigs, and where Ian used to play. Still dressed in his punk leathers and chains, the heavyset man with the streak of white running through his hair had stuck out like a bad note. Intrigued, Ian introduced himself and through a mutual love of music, the two quickly became fast friends.

  “You’re still playing?” asked Ian. “Your new woman hasn’t reined you in yet?”

  “She’ll have to pry the sticks from my cold, dead hands, which, if you knew Sally, is a whole other tale.”

  Ian laughed. “I’ll need to meet her. Enjoy your burger.”

  Jersey patted his stomach. “Always do.”

  *

  EMILY’S GRAVE was well tended with fresh mown grass, while a glass jar filled with day-old flowers told Jersey that her mother, Helena, must have visited recently.

  Emily was only six years old — the same age as the boy who now joined her in the ground — when she was killed outside her school. She was running across the road at the time, excited to see her father. Ian had watched it happen, had cradled her in his arms as the light left her eyes, and struggled to breathe when her tiny, broken chest went still.

  He had never forgiven himself, and neither had his wife.

  Ian crouched in front of the simple headstone, the dates carved on its face so close together it seemed like a mistake.

  “Hey, Thumbelina, it’s Dad.” Ian paused, allowing the quiver in his voice to settle. “There’s a new kid coming to visit, and he’s likely to be scared — although he won’t admit to it. His name is Noah. He can be a little tough to handle at first, but he’s got such a big heart. I know you must have the most wonderful playgrounds there. If you could show him around, introduce him to the other kids, and find him some Lego. He loves building things and I can only imagine what amazing buckets of the stuff you have up there.”

  Ian reached out to rest his hand on the headstone. The granite was wet and cold.

  “I love you, baby girl, and miss you so much. Be good for your grandma, and I’ll visit again soon.”

  With creaking knees, Ian stood and wiped rain from his face. He had walked just about every inch of these grounds since the time he was eight. It was where the Quinn family buried most of its secrets.

  The first funeral he remembered attending was his grandfather’s.

  Augustus Quinn was a formidable and short-fused man with hands the size of ham steaks and knuckles made of gnarled pig bones. According to family legend, he could make even the bent-nosed dockworkers tremble when they stumbled from one column of his butcher shop ledger to the other. And yet a rip thinner than a hair had breached a blood vessel in his brain and brought the giant to his knees.

  It wasn’t the burial that marked Ian’s memory of that day, however. Rather, it was what happened after, the way his father casually patted his shirt pocket when they climbed out of the station wagon at home and so easily said to his wife, “Nipping to the corner shop, love. Need a smoke in the worst way.”

  That was the last memory Ian had of his father. It was also the second time in his short life that someone he loved had vanished without saying goodbye.

  3

  Walking back, Ian noted a tall man standing on top of the hillock where he and Jersey had stood not long before. The man’s face was hidden in the shadow of a long barreled, black umbrella — the sturdy kind with a polished wood handle and a chrome spike at its tip to double as a walking stick.

  Although he couldn’t be sure, the man appeared to be studying Ian’s progress through the graveyard.

  Ignoring the stranger, Ian plodded across damp grass to the gravel path and onward to the parking lot. There were only two vehicles left in the lot, and Ian wouldn’t have minded if his had been the one he didn’t have keys to.

  The immaculate black Range Rover, waxed to a mirror finish that had the rain dancing upon its hood, made his ride look even more tragic than it was.

  Ian unlocked the driver’s door of his used, fifteen-year-old Dodge minivan — one part of the fleet that flooded the used car market when the Boomers’ kids took off for college and allowed their parents to buy the sporty vehicles they really wanted. On the upside, it had decent rubber left on the tires and, more importantly, it had been cheap.

  Inside, Ian shook the rain out of his hair and switched on the van’s heater. It took a few minutes for the engine to warm, but soon he was able to unbutton his coat and watch his hands turn from blue to pink.

  Outside, the rain fell heavier, each droplet crashing onto the van’s flat roof and filling the hollow cabin with a cacophony of sound. He hoped the grounds attendants were busy filling in Noah’s grave as that cheap cardboard coffin would already be in danger of disintegrating.

  Wondering if he should run back and check, pick up a spade and help, Ian was stopped by the unexpected presence of a small gift bag sitting on the passenger seat.

  It hadn’t been there when he parked.

  The compact paper bag was a classy matte black, like you might receive at a high-end jewelry or lingerie store, except it was absent any ubiquitous store branding. The charcoal twine handles were tied together at their apex with a thin black ribbon. Someone had taken special care with the ribbon; tied in a bow, its loops were two perfect ovals of equal size.

  Disturbed, Ian rolled down his window and turned on the van’s wipers to better study the surrounding area. Apart from the tall man standing under an umbrella on the hill, a few thousand decaying corpses in the ground, and the parked vehicle beside him, the place was deserted.

  Reaching over to wipe a film of fog from the passenger window, Ian studied the Ran
ge Rover. Its front seats were unoccupied, but the rear seats were hidden from view, shielded behind tinted glass.

  Ian wondered about the two brothers who had just buried Noah, but if they were going to leave a gift it would be in the form of a flaming paper lunch bag with fresh dog shit inside — not this.

  The lock on the passenger door was still engaged, but that didn’t mean much, not in this vehicle.

  After rolling his window up again, but leaving a small gap at the top for air circulation to help the other windows stay clear, Ian placed the bag on his lap, unpuckered the top and peered in. A small, square box in matching matte black waited inside.

  Ian looked around once more, even checking over his shoulder to make sure nobody had snuck in the sliding door and was waiting to pounce from one of the rows of empty benches behind him, before untying the ribbon and removing the box.

  It weighed practically nothing. Ian shook it gently, but there was no rattle.

  Holding his breath, Ian removed the lid.

  At first he didn’t recognize what it was: an oddly shaped gray lump lying on a fluffy cloud of cotton wool. But then he saw the cotton wasn’t all white; a crust of red hid beneath the gray object. Turning the box around in his hands, the lump shifted in his mind’s eyes before falling into the slot of something recognizable.

  Ian swallowed sour bile, feeling it burn his throat.

  It was an ear, a human ear.

  Whoever wore it last hadn’t been too careful. Not only was the gray flesh streaked with a film of what looked like nicotine and soot, but a fresh groove had been cut in its upper ridge, exposing the brighter, virginal cartilage inside. Apart from the distinctive groove, however, it had no other identifiable marks: no earring or piercings.

  Whatever the message was meant to be, Ian had no clue as to who had sent it or what it signified.

  Without touching the ear, Ian placed the lid back on the box and returned it to the bag.

  He glanced out the windshield again, but the only change was the man on the hill. He was no longer there.

  *

  IAN PULLED out his cellphone and selected a number from his short list of favorites. When the call was answered, he asked, “How’s your burger?”

  Jersey laughed. “Awesome. Just the way I like it. Pink in the middle, crispy on the edges, and real cheddar melted on top. Sally says we should only eat white cheddar, it’s more natural, but there’s something about the orange stuff. I don’t know; it just goes better with a burger.”

  “You’re making me salivate.”

  Jersey chuckled. “And I didn’t even get to the onions. These guys know how to fry onions. I think they may be using bacon grease.”

  “Where did you go?”

  Jersey told him.

  “I can be there in ten. Mind sticking around?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Something I need you to take a look at.”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you be finished eating when I get there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising.”

  “See you in ten.”

  Ian disconnected and opened his door. Stepping into the rain, he turned up the collar on his jacket and walked around the van to the Range Rover. Pressing his face against the side windows, he peered through the tint. The two rear seats were as empty as the front, but installed directly behind their headrests, a steel cage protected the cargo area.

  Moving around to the back, Ian peered through the rear window. The privacy tint made it too dark inside to see much except for several large shapes that could be anything from groceries to camping gear. He felt around for the tailgate handle hidden beneath the glass, but the vehicle was locked up tight.

  When he raised his gaze again to the glass, Ian’s heart jumped into his throat. Two Doberman Pinchers were staring at him from inside the cage. Both dogs were completely silent, their sharp ears at rapt attention and their dark, unblinking eyes focused completely on him.

  “Sorry, boys,” said Ian as he backed away. “Just curious.”

  Neither dog responded.

  Ian wasn’t a fan of large dogs; he had met too many ill-treated ones to truly trust they wouldn’t suddenly turn from family pet to child killer. Then again, he had also known a family whose pet ferrets were responsible for the gruesome mutilation of their one-month-old daughter.

  Domestication didn’t always keep the wild beast at bay.

  *

  ARRIVING AT the burger joint, Ian grabbed his disturbing package and headed inside. He found Jersey sitting at a red vinyl booth for four, sipping on a chocolate milkshake.

  “A gift,” said Jersey upon spotting the bag.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “That’s good, ’cause I’m thinking lingerie.”

  Ian squeezed into the booth facing his friend, and slid over the bag. When the waitress approached, he waved her away.

  “Not hungry?” asked Jersey.

  “You’re lucky you ate already.”

  Jersey eyed the package with more suspicion now.

  “Who gave this to you?” he asked.

  “It was sitting on my passenger seat after the funeral.”

  “No tag on the bag. Was there a card?”

  “Nope. Just the box inside.”

  “You opened it?”

  Ian nodded.

  “Looks too neat for the Bowery brothers.”

  “Agreed.”

  Jersey called back the waitress and asked if she had a spare pair of disposable acrylic gloves.

  “We sure do,” she answered with a smile, not put off at all by the unusual request. “But I must warn you that they can be a titch on the chewy side.” The young woman laughed at her own joke. “Let me grab you a pair.”

  After the waitress returned, Jersey pulled on the thin gloves and opened the bag to retrieve the box. Moving the bag to one side, he placed the box on the table and lifted the lid. Staring at the object inside, he tilted his head slightly until its shape made sense.

  “Any idea who it belonged to?” he asked finally, his voice filled more with curiosity than disturbance.

  “None, but it’s an odd message, don’t you think? What’s it supposed to symbolize? If I’m meant to listen to something, shouldn’t they have included a cassette or a CD?”

  “Maybe you pissed off an artist like Van Gogh. He cut off his own ear, right?”

  “Historians are still debating that one. Some believe he lost it in a drunken knife fight with Toulouse-Lautrec. Over a woman, naturally.”

  Jersey smirked. “I like that story better.”

  “But the only artists I deal with are usually still at the finger-painting stage.”

  Carefully, Jersey lifted the ear between two fingers and turned it around to see the back. There were four numbers crudely tattooed in blue ink. The tattoo was faded, but still legible: it read 1976.

  “That number mean anything to you?”

  Ian thought about it for a moment before answering. “That was the year my sister went missing.”

  “Missing? I never knew you had a sister.”

  “I barely remember her. Her name was Abbie. She was twelve. I was only about six at the time, so I didn’t know any of the details. My parents never talked about it, at least not in front of me. She was just gone. Then my father took off a year later. Oldest cliché in the book, said he was going out to buy cigarettes and never came back.”

  “Do you think there was a connection?”

  Ian shrugged. “When I think about how Helena and I ripped our marriage apart after losing Emily, I suppose the same thing probably happened to my parents when Abbie disappeared. They argued a lot, I remember that. My mother would rant and scream, and my dad would punch a wall and storm off to the bar. For a kid hiding under the bed covers and reading comic books by flashlight, it was…terrifying.”

  “Maybe that’s what made you start Children First? To protect that fr
ightened boy hiding under the covers.”

  Ian smirked at the psychological hypothesis. “Could be.”

  “Did your sister wear earrings?”

  Ian closed his eyes, struggling to find a memory, but failing. “I don’t remember.”

  “This earlobe has never been pierced,” said Jersey. “My guess is male. The tattoo is crude. Could have been inked in a prison or military unit, somewhere men get easily bored and masturbation has become mundane.” He turned it back over and studied the groove cutting through the flesh. “This looks fairly new. The wound is clean, but see how the edges are pointing in a uniform direction.” He turned the ear to expose its profile. “Entry from the rear with a slight incline before exiting. Could have been made by a bullet, something moving hot and fast. A fraction more to the left and the top of the ear is gone; another fraction and the bullet is burrowing through skull.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  Jersey shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Let me hold on to it. I’ll get it checked for prints and run DNA, then see if we have a match in the database.”

  Ian chewed on his thumbnail, lost in thought.

  “Something wrong?” asked Jersey.

  “It’s just such a weird message. A nose, I could understand maybe: keep your nose out of our business. Or an eye for an eye, but an ear?” Ian paused, and grimaced. “Sorry, that was off-track. But can we go to a private DNA lab on this? I know your labs are always swamped, and I’d prefer to get the results back as soon as possible. I’ll pay the fee.”

  “Not a problem. I know just the firm. And in the meantime, I’ll send out a few feelers, see if anyone has shown up in hospital or the morgue absent an ear.”

  “Smart,” said Ian.

  “That’s why I have a badge and you’ve got a business card.”

  Ignoring the jab, Ian asked, “You planning to finish that shake?”

  Jersey grinned, plucked out his straw for one last messy slurp, and slid the drink over. Ian had a fresh straw unwrapped and ready to go before the fountain glass came to a rest.

  4

  Driving home, Ian checked in with Children First, the organization he not only worked for, but was co-owner, albeit a quiet one. The woman who ran the child protection service, Linda McCabe, was far more capable at dealing with all the government regulation red tape than Ian ever could be.