Tucked away behind the free standing garage next to the house, the Boat Man sat and listened to every word, waiting for the opportune moment. With each sound of dissension that floated out, the feeling of satisfaction welled within him.
The joy that came with the elimination of this target wouldn’t only be felt by him.
Cloaked in black, the Boat Man sat with one shoulder leaning against the rear of the garage, the rotting wood splintering beneath his weight. Every few moments a few flakes wrenched themselves free and drifted to the ground, spotting his clothing.
Each time he brushed them away, careful not to let anything touch his bare skin.
Concealed between a pair of ragged box hedges, there was no concern of detection. After the events of the previous night though, and all that was about to unfold, it would only be a matter of time before the police made a connection between the two.
Now, more than ever, it was vital that he not become sloppy and leave something behind for them to work with.
Not with so much still left to do.
“I told you, we were just talking!” the male inside bellowed, rage creeping in to his voice.
“It sure as hell didn’t look like talking to me!” the woman replied, vehemence plain, her din just shy of a shriek. “What would have happened if I hadn’t gotten there when I did?”
The question brought a hint of a smile to the Boat Man’s face, the right corner of his mouth tracking upward. The woman’s absence was what had allowed him to get into position so easily, finding the spot just after dusk, unnoticed by the darkened homes nearby.
The target was the second in as many nights, chosen for his place in the hierarchy.
Unlike his previous target, the scouting had been easy for this one. There was no need to watch for patterns or determine a time when he could find the man alone.
Everything the Boat Man needed was curled up less than ten feet away, pacing back and forth in the yard, the sound of his chain dragging across the ground audible between outbursts from the home.
Drawing his legs up beneath him, the Boat Man climbed onto his feet, peering out from around the edge of the garage. Branches of the hedges scratched at his body as he rose, the ragged plants rattling just slightly with his movement.
“Dammit, I told you, nothing!” the man called again.
Twisting his body at the waist, the Boat Man slid his head around the side of the building to peer up at the house.
Built to match the garage, it was a one-story home with a porch and wooden siding. Much like the structure he now leaned against, it appeared to be aging badly, in dire need of paint.
Framed in the kitchen window, the Boat Man saw as a pair of silhouettes moved back and forth, both with arms flailing. He waited, watching as the two grew closer together, one lashing out at the other, the darkened shape of a hand connecting with the head of the other.
All sound fell away as the Boat Man watched the scene play out, his resolve growing stronger as his heart rate picked up just slightly.
It was time.
Extricating himself from behind the garage, he crept heel-to-toe towards the small wooden doghouse filling the bulk of the space between the home and garage. Just beyond the scope of the overhead street lamp, it remained shrouded in darkness, its occupant moving back and forth in silence.
Inch by inch the Boat Man made his way forward, the smell of wet fur and feces reaching his nostrils. A sheen of moisture coated his eyes as he proceeded, extending one hand and knocking against the back of the structure.
The move delivered the intended effect.
The moment the sound reached the dog’s ears, it exploded in a frenzy of angry fervor, the barking starting loud outside, becoming muffled as the animal ran to the back of the structure. It reverberated off the walls as the Boat Man knelt low, waiting for the hysterics to serve their purpose.
Ignoring the howling of the dog separated from him by just a single piece of wood, he focused his attention on the house, anticipation roiling through him as the sound of arguing died away.
In its place was only the angry baying of the dog thundering out over the neighborhood.
After a moment the sound began to fade away, the animal losing interest, the barks becoming a bit softer, some space appearing between them.
Once more the Boat Man tapped at the back of the structure, sending the dog into a second burst of concentrated venom, the sound now distorted by a heavy dose of saliva, a tongue starting to wag from exertion.
Poised in his hiding spot, the Boat Man reached back over a shoulder and extracted his sword, the freshly oiled blade sliding from its scabbard without a sound. Gripping it tight he waited, listening as the springs on the rear door to the house wheezed in exertion, followed a moment later by boots hitting steps.
“What the hell are you out here barking at?”
The voice was male, a trace of familiarity present. The sound of it enforced the Boat Man’s hold on his weapon, his breath picking up just a bit.
Seconds passed as the footsteps drew closer, passing over from the back walk to the dirt.
“Hey,” the man snapped, “get your ass out here. What’s going on?”
Three long, torturous seconds passed as the Boat Man allowed his prey to draw closer before he sprang.
Chapter Eleven
The face of Edwin Mentor stared back at Reed, filling over half of the computer screen.
At first glance he appeared Latino, though his records indicated he was half-Caucasian, half-Filipino. The mug shot had been taken almost a decade before when Mentor still had hair, the top of his head framed with short, dark spikes that were gelled into place. A thin beard and goatee encased his face and a thick gold chain hung from his neck.
All in all, a look that screamed 2004.
The folder Solomon had given him sat open on Reed’s lap as he glanced down at the photos she had taken and the image on the screen. Somewhere in the bottom of the crime scene report lying across his keyboard were the photos taken the night before, though Reed preferred to work off of the sanitized ones sent over by the ME.
Before touching any of the paper Reed had started in the electronic databases, intent to learn everything he could about Mentor before going back over what he already knew.
The first step for any homicide investigation was the crime scene. Having spent six hours there within the last day, Reed felt reasonably comfortable with everything that was found.
A whole lot of gore, and not much else.
After, the second place to look was at victimology, trying to work backwards from the person that was killed to determine who might have done it. Often there was no clear throughway that connected one with the other, but if digging around long enough an investigator could at least determine the why, which generally led to the who.
Beginning with the large national databases, Reed entered Mentor into ViCAP – the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program – and NCIC, the National Crime Information Center. Both were run by the FBI, meant to warehouse data on violent or egregious offenders, running the gamut of criminals from identity thieves to foreign fugitives.
Once both came back negative, he shifted his attention to the local files, finding only a pair of arrests six months apart in the fall of 2004 and the spring of 2005.
The first offense occurred after being picked up for driving with a busted taillight, the officer on the scene smelling marijuana and asking Mentor to step out. A search of the car found three-eighths of an ounce inside, enough to warrant a possession charge but not approach the line for being considered a dealer.
Half a year later Mentor was arrested along with eight others after a bar fight in Grove City. The narrative read that two groups of young men, one of which Mentor was a member of, had gotten into an argument over a basketball game on television. The disagreement had turned violent and all nine had entered into an altercation.
None of the participants had pressed charges, but the bar owner had been forced to for
insurance purposes.
After that, the trail went cold. He owned his car, paid his rent on time. For the past six years he had been employed as a mechanic at a shop in Franklinton, a quick call over revealing the shop was closed until morning.
Parents passed when he was seventeen, no spouse or children.
Once the low hanging fruit was stripped clean, Reed fell to the files. Thus far they had revealed little beyond the fact that the years had not been especially kind to him.
“You got anything?” Reed asked, the question aimed at Billie as she laid flat on the tile floor near his feet. The upper half of her eyelids opened at the sound of his voice, her ears rising on her head.
“Yeah, me neither,” Reed muttered, shifting his attention back to the files. “Tomorrow we’ll see if we can track down this woman the uniforms found, maybe swing by the scene and let that nose of yours have a look around. Sound good?”
“You always talk to her that way?” a voice asked, snapping Reed and Billie’s attention both to face forward, the latter’s chin rising from the floor.
Across from them Jackie approached, her wide figure barely squeezing along the narrow pathway between the desks. In her hand she carried a paper cup of coffee, a lid fastened in place, a red plastic straw extended above it.
A wan smile crossed Reed’s face as he leaned back in his chair, folding the file closed on his lap. “The hard part is getting her to talk back.”
A wistful expression fell over Jackie’s face as she looked at the dog, her eyes glossing for a moment. “If only.”
She held the pose a moment before extending the coffee out in front of her, setting it down on the only square of clear space on the desk. “Here, honey, I brought you this.”
The smile fell from Reed’s face as he looked at the cup and then up at the expression on Jackie’s face. The familiar feeling of nervousness settled into his stomach as he read the situation, knowing that her act wasn’t entirely one of propriety.
“What happened?” he asked, letting the thought show in his voice.
“We just got another call. Sounds a lot like the one you’re looking at right now.”
Chapter Twelve
Unlike the night before, the scene was alive with activity as Reed pulled up. A squad car was parked across the end of the driveway, an ambulance behind it. A third truck with an insignia on the door Reed didn’t recognize came next in line, orange flashing lights atop the cab striping the neighborhood with their tangerine hue.
“What the hell?” Reed muttered, easing to a stop on the opposite side of the street. In the back seat he could hear Billie moving around, straining to look, her paws squeaking against plastic.
“You better stay here,” Reed said, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out, his partner again whining from the back seat to join him.
Ignoring the sound of her, Reed slid his badge out from beneath his sweatshirt, letting it swing free around his neck, bouncing off his chest. It glinted under the bright lights of the truck, reflecting the light every two seconds as it rotated in a circle atop the hood.
Halfway across the street, one of the responding officers spotted him and stepped out in front of his car. The same height and a few pounds heavier than Reed, he looked to be approaching forty. Bits of grey striped his temples, framing a face of mocha colored skin pockmarked from previous acne.
“Detective Reed?” he asked, standing perpendicular to Reed, his body angled towards the house.
Reed nodded, stepping forward and introducing himself, a hand outstretched.
The officer met the shake and the nod, shifting to face forward. “Derek Greene.”
He pointed over towards the ambulance, the back doors standing open, bright light from within splashing out. Seated on the edge of it was a young woman with dark hair, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Beside her stood a second officer in uniform, much younger than Greene, holding a pad and pencil out in front of him, motioning for the woman to calm down.
He didn’t appear to be making much headway placating her, or getting her statement.
“My partner, Adam Gilchrist,” Greene said.
Reed’s glance lingered on the scene behind the ambulance a long moment before shifting forward. It was something he had seen many times over the years, something he had done on more than one occasion.
“Rook?” Reed asked.
“Less than a year in,” Greene confirmed, his features impassive as he stared straight ahead. His voice was free of inflection, meant merely to relay information, not scorn.
In his experience, Reed had found that was usually the best that could be said about rookies. Even those that came in with military training seemed to be like a newborn colt their first year, all knees and elbows, barely able to stand on their own.
“Is he talking to her because she has pertinent information or because you want him far from the crime scene?”
“Yes,” Greene replied, glancing over at Reed, no sign of mirth anywhere on his features.
Reed had figured as much.
“Alright, what do we know?”
A long, slow breath passed from Greene as he folded his arms across his chest, shifting his weight from side to side. “Call came in twenty minutes ago from the girlfriend, said that she and her boyfriend were home this evening when something outside caused their dog to go crazy. The boyfriend stepped out to see what was going on, never came back.”
So far, nothing Greene had said seemed consistent with the night before, from the amount of activity surrounding the area to the presence of another person on site.
“Was reported as another 187,” Reed said. “Can you confirm?”
“Yes,” Greene said without pause, not the slightest hint of hesitation in his voice.
A nod pulled Reed’s head upward. “Last night I got one that had been hacked up pretty bad, looked like someone took a damn broadsword to the body. Dispatch said it might be connected.”
Reed left the statement open-ended, allowing Greene to match it against what he had already seen, free from any leading at all.
A long moment passed in silence before Greene arched an eyebrow, rotating at the waist to look Reed’s way. “I heard some chatter about that on the line this afternoon, wasn’t sure if it was true or not.”
“It was,” Reed said, drawing his mouth into a tight line. While it was generally not his policy to share the gruesome details of cases, there was no reason to withhold information from Greene. If the two were in fact connected, he would need every relevant detail he could get.
That only happened if he played ball with the responding officers.
“What’s with the laser light show?” Reed asked, motioning towards the flashing orange lamps illuminating the neighborhood, drawing gawkers to their windows like moths to a flame.
“Animal control,” Greene said, again twisting to look over at Reed.
Once more a feeling welled within Reed, a combination of dread and adrenaline, his body’s natural response to what was bound to be an ugly situation. A handful of questions passed through his mind as he tried to make sense of why animal control was on site, but he let them go.
So far, Greene seemed to be pretty in control, handling things much better than the young crew the night before. His lack of impairment hinted that it wasn’t the first body he’d seen, the police tape and relocation of the witness displaying the scene was secure.
“How bad?” Reed asked, again leaving his voice flat, letting his colleague draw from it what he would.
“Top...two,” Greene said, pausing in the middle to consider his answer.
The feeling within Reed intensified a tiny bit. Two didn’t leave a lot of wiggle room. Two meant that this was going to be ugly, potentially even worse than what he’d seen the night before.
“If it’s alright by you Officer, I’m going to go ahead and declare it a homicide, call in the tech crew so they can start making their way over here.”
Greene remained motionless a long moment, his arms still folded across his chest. “That’s what I would do, too.”
Chapter Thirteen
Top two might have been a stretch, but Reed was not above ranking the crime scene in his top three.
Never did he want to call something the very worst, fearing angering karmic forces enough to view the statement as a challenge, sending him something straight from a Stephen King novel. Instead he tended to group things in terms of round numbers, usually multiples of five.
The previous night was a top ten scene, maybe cracking the top five if he really tried to force it. The shock value of the blood and the severed limb had made it seem much worse at first, his senses not expecting to respond to such a visceral visual.
The facts were though, there was only a single victim, and the kill was fresh. There was no mass grave, no gang shootout that had ended with bodies strewn through the street. Nobody had been left in the summer heat, their tissues bloating and desiccating under the hot sun.
Top ten, possibly top five.
This scene was top three, no questions asked.
The victim’s name was A.J. Wright, the girlfriend saying he always went by his initials, short for Alex Jason. Thus far that was the only useful information they had gotten out of her, though standing over the scene, Reed didn’t begrudge her a bit for it.
Walking out to find a loved one in that position would have shaken him too.
Wright was sprawled face up on a dirt patch between the house and a detached garage, the area clearly beaten free of grass by a dog. Its house and chain were both a few feet from the victim’s head, standing silent and empty.
Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a flannel open over it, his torso was carved with two intersecting slashes, both consistent with what Reed had seen the night before. The depth and ferocity of the cuts were such that bits of bowel and intestine were distended up from the wounds, bodily fluid staining the front of his clothes. A single gaping stab wound was present in the man’s chest.
The Boat Man: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 5