The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  The Kazakhstanis reached the designated rendezvous point south of Highway 92 outside Sierra Vista just before daybreak. Even at 5:30 in the morning, the air was stifling hot and thick with monsoon humidity. Fortunately, the Central Asians were quite used to the high summer heat in the continental plains, which was almost as miserable as the Sonoran desert. The trek through the rugged terrain had been difficult, but they were well schooled in survival techniques they learned back home.

  The foursome moved restlessly behind a thick strand of mesquite trees, smoking cigarettes and reciting passages from the Holy book until a battered orange van pulled up. Dust from the tires drifted high into the air and mingled with the oily exhaust from an engine with leaking seals. The idling vehicle remained stationary for some time. Even the windshield was tinted the darkest black commercially available, which completely hid the occupants from view.

  After some minutes, the engine shut down, and the driver’s side door opened, squawking on rusty hinges. A slim Mexican national wearing tight Levis’ and a black tee emerged. He walked behind the barrel of a menacing HK 55EA3 assault rifle. The passenger’s door opened, and another Mexican jumped out holding a Smith and Wesson 38 Chiefs Special and wearing black wrap-around sun glasses. The pair walked slowly to the mesquite strand and looked directly at the four Central Asians. There was an attitude of disdain and intimidation between the two groups.

  The driver immediately noticed the missing coyote. “Where is Juan?”

  The terrorist named Burikhan shrugged. “He received full payment and left. He did not even take us to the pick-up point. Instead, he gave us a map and went back into Mexico. We were frightened; we could have died.”

  The driver remained unconvinced and looked at his companion. They spoke Spanish in low tones. Finally, he turned back toward the Kazakhstanis. “I don’t like you. I don’t like Russians. You give me sudor frío. If we don’t see Juan, we don’t take you to Tucson.”

  Now it was Burikhan’s turn to speak with his comrades in Kasakh. They seemed to be in a heated debate before the Kazakhstani leader flattened his palms and spread his arms rapidly, which ended the discussion. He turned back to face the armed Mexican smugglers. “We understand your… fear. Maybe you are more easy by giving you more money?”

  The Mexican nationals regarded him suspiciously. The silent one finally spoke. “How much more?”

  “How about—two hundred thousand U.S. dollars?”

  The Mexicans huddled and digested the information. The usual fee, as agreed upon in this case, was $30,000. The sudden and inexplicable increase to one million served as an alert that these men were much more than mere illegals looking for a better life in America. The Mexicans continued training their weapons on the Kazakhstanis while moving closer and talking in Spanish.

  “I don’t like it, Raphael. We should just leave now. This is too big for us.”

  “No, this is our chance, Jorge. A hundred thousand each. We would be rich. No more smuggling the scum through the desert into this stinking country. We will take the money.”

  Jorge shook his head. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Raphael waved him off and turned his attention back to the illegals. “Show us the money, and we will take you.”

  Burikhan smiled and motioned for a knapsack. Kabanbai picked it up carefully and brought it forward. While Jorge continued to train his weapon on the Kazakhstanis, Temir undid the straps and dug into the bag. He extracted several stacks of tightly bundled $100 bills.

  “It is real, Jorge? We are rich men!” Even his reluctant partner could not resist a smile.

  In their hearts, they knew these “customers” were probably terrorists intent on killing innocent civilians, but their greed and selfishness took precedence. There may have been a few reservations, but ten minutes later the wretched duo laughed and sang songs as their van moved swiftly down a back road toward Tucson. The Mexicans could not have known the money was coated with an aggressive chemical poison that ran through their blood even as they celebrated. By the time the van bypassed the sensitive border patrol checkpoints, they would be comatose and near death.

  Raphael and Jorge laughed and smoked, intoxicated by the money. They spent their last hours on earth discussing how it would be spent.

  ***

  Detective Jose Munoz walked slowly through the lavish apartment, his eyes trained on details rather than the big picture. This looked like a routine suicide, but Munoz still felt uneasy for a reason he couldn’t quite understand.

  The spacious four-bedroom apartment had the unmistakable stench of death. The brain never forgot the smell no matter how far removed or how many years had passed. Munoz remembered the first time he breathed in the sickly sweet air of a decaying body. He went home that evening, and in desperation, he coated the inside of his nostrils with a solid air freshener. Yet, no matter what he tried, the memory of the odor stayed with him until it nearly drove him to madness.

  This body had been decomposing for a couple of days. The victim was perched in a chair, seemingly straining against some invisible bonds. In the end, it appeared that some part of her rebelled at the prospect of expiring. Theresa Armstrong’s eyes bulged and veins pushed against the decaying flesh, the corners of her mouth turned down in a ghoulish mask of pain.

  He rummaged through some personal belongings, looking for a letter or something that would make the report easier to write. Suicides were so much simpler for the police and the coroner when the victim left a note that eliminated any doubt as to the nature of the crime. Munoz picked up the pill bottle with a gloved hand and put it in an evidence bag, but it seemed he would not be lucky enough to get any confirming evidence that would quickly close the case.

  As the clock moved past 4:30 p.m., Munoz decided to call it a day. Frieda would surely be starting dinner by now, and Jose knew that Wednesday was pot roast, his favorite dish. He scratched some notes for his report, took one last look around the room, and turned to leave. For some reason, his eye was drawn to a couple words scrawled in large jagged letters on a slip of paper splotched with potato chip grease. It simply said, Find Moss. Munoz starred at the paper for some time. He face contorted into what Frieda called his “Cannon” look from an old 1970s detective series. Munoz picked up the paper and examined it closely. Something about that name bothered him. Had the victim tried to communicate something?

  Munoz gently picked up the paper and put it into an evidence bag. The odor of death stayed with him when he left the apartment, and he cursed silently. Frieda’s pot roast was going to taste horrible tonight because he wasn’t going to be able to forget the smell anytime soon.

  Later that evening, after he finished dinner, Munoz relaxed with an Arturo Fuentes cigar and reflected back on the brief suicide investigation. He couldn’t explain it, but something felt out of place. That investigation was relatively minor part of his day, yet he spent a great deal of time turning it over in his mind when he should have been focusing on the double homicide he was also assigned to.

  He reached into his satchel and pulled out the folded piece of paper he had taken from her apartment. Find Moss—he knew that name from somewhere but just couldn’t recall… Munoz moved to his computer in the den, and after booting it up, entered the National Criminal Justice Reference System under his own account. He typed the name in the database search engine and clicked on the all instances button. The computer paused as it rifled through every crime report that Munoz had filed during his career in law enforcement. A small light flickered as the search continued, and a little box down at the right corner of the screen gave a running total of the matches. Munoz almost dozed before a short audio blip jarred him, and he opened his eyes. He blinked and looked at the corner of the screen that displayed: search completed-one match.

  Hurriedly, he scrolled through the screen to find the case title. It read, Louis Chesser, Suicide, Seattle, Washington. He double clicked and opened the file, and as soon as he saw the victim’s face, the details came flooding b
ack. The officer on the scene who filled out the report was Patrolman Jose Munoz. He skimmed the text, but there was really no need. He remembered the case in almost perfect detail.

  The crime itself was nothing more than a routine suicide, but even then it bothered the young police officer just out of the academy. He recalled the pained expression on the face of the young man, which was very similar to the same tortured look that Theresa Armstrong had. The bulging eyes and distended veins were identical in both victims.

  While those observations were subjective, and relatively common, the last bit of evidence was not. At the end of the report, almost as an afterthought, Munoz had written: “Victim was clutching a note with the words, it was Moss written on it.” He recalled there was a brief investigation before the note was dismissed as irrelevant.

  Munoz exhaled and reached for the telephone; a small shudder ran through his body. He had a direct line into homicide and he pushed the speed dial. The phone rang once before the call was answered.

  “This is Schaeffer.”

  “Jack, this is Munoz.”

  “Yeah, Jose, what’s up? Why are you calling so late?”

  “Jack, I need a favor. Look up the Theresa Armstrong case. I just sent you the number.”

  Munoz heard some frenetic typing on the other end.

  “Got it, Jose. Looks like a routine suicide.”

  “Change it to homicide, Jack.”

  “Whoa, you got something on it, Jose?”

  Munoz paused. He knew this was likely a waste of time and a dead end. And yet… “Yes, I do. Run a check on anyone with the last name of ‘Moss’ here locally. I’m looking for criminals as well as prominent people in the community. Also, run a comparison of the Theresa Armstrong case and a case from Seattle in ‘93. It’s, ah, case number Z576-983. The name of that victim was Chesser, Louis. Please have the results ready for me when I get in tomorrow morning, ok?”

  “Sure, Jose. Something’s up here, huh?

  Munoz sighed. “It’s late; I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  ***

  “Flight 610 final boarding for Las Vegas.” The voice over the intercom echoed through the terminal at Albuquerque International. Zach and Jarad Anston walked the inclined runway to the plane. Its screaming turbines rendered any conversation useless, much to Zach’s delight.

  When they settled into their seats, Zach slid down, pushed a set of buds into his ear canals and feigned sleep. He hoped this would send a message to Anston. However, Jarad reached over and pulled one of the buds out of his right ear. “You were saying….”

  The plane pulled away from the terminal and began taxiing toward the runway to take its place in the departure line. “Look,” Zach began, “something happened to me during the divorce. Something I never told you about that changed me.”

  Anston kept his gaze riveted on Zach and motioned for him to continue.

  “Carol and I were having such problems; my whole world was crumbling. I—I couldn’t stand the fact she didn’t love me anymore. I couldn’t accept it. So….”

  “So…what?”

  Fortunately for Zach the plane began its rapid ascent down the runway. He was spared a continued explanation while the hurtling metal cylinder nosed upward and left the concrete pavement below. Once the plane was airborne, Anston leaned back over in the direction of his friend and gestured for him to continue

  “There's no easy way to say this; you already know I tried to kill myself, Jarad. It wasn’t a stunt; it was the real deal. I took almost a whole bottle of Percocets. While I don’t have any recollection of that night, I must have called 911 because an ambulance showed up and the paramedics revived me. No one really knows how I survived.”

  Anston turned away, dropped his head and shook it sadly. “I’m sorry, Zach. I wish I could have been there sooner. I wish we had been better friends before the breakup. Still, this is a positive step. Even in session, you never told the group the details of your suicide attempt.”

  “No, please don’t feel guilty on my account. You have your own life and family to think about. You’re not responsible for my problems. Besides, I tried to hide my feelings and put the best face forward. You know, it’s that old German stoicism.”

  “Still, I wish I could have been more helpful. You never discussed Carol very much in session either. How did she take it?”

  “I didn’t have any choice but to tell her of course. She’s never told Mandy, thank God. But honestly, she was more angry than anything else. In a weird way, the suicide attempt was a blessing because it made me face the fact that Carol would never love me again.”

  “Ok, I understand that part. Everyone who tried to take their our own life battled a demon of some sort at the time. For most of us, it’s a life long struggle. Remember, you’re not alone. We all share a common experience.”

  Jarad accepted a cola drink from the flight attendant and took a sip. “But I don’t understand what your suicide attempt has to do with flying to Las Vegas? I still don’t get it.”

  “Well, how can I say this without you thinking I’ve lost my mind?” said Zach. “If trying to kill myself wasn’t enough, I, ah, started to have—visions.”

  “Visions?”

  Zach shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t explain it myself. After I recovered, I was alone in the apartment when the first one hit. It completely overwhelmed me. I had no sense of reality when it happened. Kind of like I was watching a movie, but it seemed incredibly real.”

  “What were you seeing?” asked Anston.

  “I…I saw someone commit suicide. I watched a man take his own life, and I was powerless to help.” Zach scratched hard on his neck. “Naturally I thought I was having a hallucination of some sort, despite how real it felt. Maybe from the medicine I was on. I even talked about it with the psychiatrist.”

  “The psychiatrist? I didn’t know you were still seeing him.”

  Zach shook his head. “I haven’t talked to him for a while.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, the doctor had me pretty much convinced it was part of my unresolved subconscious issues—until it happened again.”

  “Wow, the same way?”

  “Yes, exactly the same way. I had five more after that, each more vivid than the one before. Still, my shrink kept saying it was all part of this psychosis that stemmed from the suicide. He told me to ignore them. I did, until you showed me otherwise.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “In the eighth vision, I found that I could manipulate the viewing perspective a little. I was able to search the room for clues, and I happened to find a bill with a name and address on it.”

  “Let me guess; the name was Helena Bostwick… C’mon Zach, that could still be a coincidence.”

  “Really? A woman with the same name and address as the one whose records you showed me? I called her sister, Jarad. Helena Bostwick is dead. She committed suicide on the day I had the vision.”

  Anston shifted in his seat. “There has to be some logical explanation. You can’t be having visions of people killing themselves. It’s just too—strange.”

  “I thought I lost my mind. And yet, the last vision came, and I was able to see another name and address. I don’t want to wait this time. I need to see if she’s dead, or maybe I can save her.”

  “Were you having a vision when I found you lying in the driveway?”

  “Yes.”

  Jarad Anston leaned his head back into the high-backed seat. “I don’t know Zach, this is almost too much. Does Carol know about any of this?”

  “No, and I don’t want her to know. This stays between us, got it?”

  “Sure. But I don’t get a good feeling about any of it.” Anston placed his hand on Zach’s arm. “You’ve got to promise me that if we don’t find anything, you’ll talk to another doctor.”

  “Sure Jarad. I’ll just tell him, ‘I see dead people.’”

  Chapter Eight

  The gray pickup slowed as it pulled int
o the Rush R convenience store in Temecula, and an older couple got out carefully. Their clothing was more utilitarian than fashionable, wrinkled and smudged with farmer’s soil. Hank and Gina Harvel stepped in front of the truck and looked anxiously in every direction.

  “I don’t know ‘bout this,” said Hank. “I don’t know, ‘bout this ‘tall.”

  “Oh Hank, what if it is Sarah? We just have to… Look, over there.”

  Their attention was drawn to a girl sitting on a concrete bench in front of the convenience store. Approaching cautiously, they stopped at a safe but reasonable distance. “Sarah? Is that you?” asked Gina Harvel.

  The younger woman rose from the bench and moved swiftly toward the pair, running the last few steps and then embracing the old woman tightly.

  “Oh God, Aunt Gina; Uncle Hank. I knew you would come… Thank you.”

  They exchanged awkward glances for several moments. The Harvels accepted the loss of their niece many years ago, and her sudden appearance ripped open raw wounds. Even before the disappearance, half a continent had separated Gina from her sister. They visited each other a handful of times when Sarah was very young, but it was impossible to recognize this grown woman.

  Sarah’s uncle shuffled his feet, not quite knowing what to say as he gingerly placed his hand on her shoulder. The tears of joy seemed genuine, and his own eyes welled up as he watched her. “Sarah, there’s so much to talk about. Let’s get on home.”

  He stood in the middle of his wife and his niece, his arm around each as they walked back to the old pickup truck. Slamming the hollow doors and cranking the engine, he eased the vehicle out of the parking lot and onto I-15. Since his full attention was on the frail form of Sarah, Hank Harvel hardly noticed the BMW SUV with the heavily tinted windows pulling in from the opposite end of the store.

  The car skidded to a stop, and all four doors opened ominously. A tall man in a perfectly cut dark suit emerged. His jet-black hair was slicked back in perfect uniformity, and the dark Ray-Bans hid his penetrating green eyes. Victor Price was a section chief for the Network and proud of it.