The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr. Cox sat on the upholstered sectional in his private quarters. The room was dark and quiet except for the scraping sound of a razor knife as it repeatedly opened and closed. He brought his hand down slowly and placed the sharp edge of the blade against the flesh of his thigh. As the razor traced a path across the width of his quadriceps, he continued to apply pressure until the skin stretched and finally burst,. Blood dripped from the wound and ran down the side of his leg. Mr. Cox gasped in delight while using his forefinger to draw small semicircles in the liquid as it pooled at his feet.

  The only other occupant in the room was a disfigured dwarf who stood by obediently with several towels, bandages and antiseptic. He cringed as he watched the blade cut into Mr. Cox’ leg. His master was in a foul mood, and this was a very bad thing for everyone.

  “Hefe, come here.”

  Hefe let out a small groan and waddled over to the sofa.

  “Give me a towel—and stick out your arm.”

  “Please, boss, don’t cut me. Hefe don’t like it.” He handed Cox a towel and moved several steps backward while cowering.

  “I said, hold out your arm.” The Benefactor’s eyes reddened, and his face tightened. Hefe knew that look. He whimpered and took tentative steps forward, hesitantly extending his arm. Mr Cox grabbed the deformed appendage and held it tightly, bringing the razor down with a slashing motion that dug deep into Hefe’s flesh. A stream of blood sprayed across the face of the sofa and onto Mr. Cox himself.

  Hefe howled and dropped the supplies as he covered the wound with his free hand and shuddered in pain. “It hurts boss, it hurts,” he cried.

  Cox reached down and stroked the coarse hair on Hefe’s head. “Poor Hefe, who would do such a thing? Here is a towel for your wound. Now, wipe up the blood and pour me a glass of Merlot.”

  Carefully wrapping the towel around his wounded arm, Hefe scuttled away, mumbling in Malay and choking back tears. He returned with a glass that was half full of wine and placed the bottle on a side table. “Anything else boss?” he asked.

  Cox waved him away dismissively.

  The confrontation with the stranger in the other reality was extremely unsettling and revealed an unanticipated flaw in an otherwise perfect plan. A wild card threatened to disturb the pristine realm Mr. Cox had so meticulously devised. Worse, he wasn’t successful in disrupting the synaptic pathways of the rogue entity. Of course, he boiled the brain of the dimwit suicide recruit, but the stranger was able to withstand the onslaught and escape.

  Upon the dissolution of the vision, Cox immediately informed Xavier Watts of the location of the incident and the escape of the strange one. The entity left a wide trail of kinetic energy that was relatively easy to follow. He and a companion left the apartment building and drove to a local eating establishment.

  Perhaps Cox was overly optimistic, but it was encouraging that his surveillance went undetected. A couple level-one law enforcement operatives from the Las Vegas region were dispatched to eliminate the threat, but in another setback, someone or something had interfered in the effort. Watts reluctantly delivered the news that the operation was unsuccessful, and there were casualties. Mr. Cox would expend a great deal of capital controlling the investigation and squelching the story in the media.

  To make matters worse, the rogue was interfering with the suicide recruits and this could not be allowed to continue. Mr. Cox groomed his most fervent and loyal followers from the ranks of the hopeless, and they were an integral part of the management structure in the Network.

  Dropping the razor, he picked up a long needle and began repeatedly stabbing it into his hand, cursing everyone he could think of within the operation. World leaders from government, industry and business were waiting for the meeting to resume for nearly two hours, but Mr. Cox didn’t care. He got up and walked over to a wall safe hidden behind a false bookshelf. He turned the tumbler until the locking mechanism opened. Inside the safe sat a mahogany box adorned with jewels and ornate carvings. He carefully removed the box and slowly opened the lid. The shimmering iridescent glow instantly filled the darkened room with a rich, deep yellow color. A pulse of heavy energy washed over the Benefactor’s entire body. After several seconds, he felt reinvigorated and saturated with fresh hatred.

  The energy of the strange one still left a residual trail, and he was on the move. Mr. Cox grabbed his phone and hit a button that secured the line.

  “Watts here.”

  “I’m following the path of the rogue presence I spoke to you about. He is on a flight to Seattle. When I am certain of his final destination, I will relay the coordinates. Make sure Alan has arranged a welcoming party for him.”

  “Yes sir, I’m on it.” As usual, they did not exchange salutations.

  After nearly three hours, Mr. Cox finally returned to the meeting in a clean, pressed white suit. There were long looks and questioning expressions, but no one dared utter a sound. The Benefactor had a foul look on his face.

  “Good day,” he said. “As you know, our time of salvation will soon be at hand. Yet, there is much work that must still be done, and the success of the plan depends entirely on our attentiveness to detail. Let us begin. I need a report relating to the state of the major world financial systems.”

  The chairman of the Global International Monetary Fund, Andreas Swenson, stood and eyed his peers. The Swede was short, bald and in his late 50s. Almost six years ago, he was alone and desperate, standing on an expanse of the Tjörn Bridge when Mr. Cox found him. After some discussion, Swenson pledged his loyalty, and the scandal involving the underage male intern at the Reisdorf bank disappeared, seemingly overnight.

  He cleared his throat and began to speak. “The world’s banking systems continue to decline. Strategic allies in government and the financial sector, particularly in the United States, have provided the opportunity to destroy the underlying infrastructure. Well-timed derivatives, collateral debt obligations, and subprime instruments have resulted in a reduction of universal wealth by over a hundred trillion dollars. This represents a decline of 45 percent of total global wealth. In response, some governments have tried to obscure this burden but with increasingly less success. We feel that the collapse of the world’s financial system is imminent. Perhaps six months without a systemic shock.”

  “And what if we provide the ‘systemic shock’ you speak of?” asked Cox.

  Swenson shrugged. “Much less. Perhaps weeks.”

  The scowl on Cox’ pale lips turned slowly into a smile. “Excellent, excellent. Now let us hear from the head of the United Nations Department of Environmental Preservation. What have we done to advance climate change?”

  The Chairman of the UN global warming committee stood and looked nervously around the room. Luis Miguelista had succumbed to the temptation of prostitutes and gambling. A threat from Alan to expose his tawdry lifestyle to his wife and four children had ensured his cooperation.

  “Efforts to undermine climate change regulations continue to enjoy success…”

  ***

  Detective Munoz walked through the double glass doors of the office on the 37th floor of the Berman building in Puget Sound. He was unable to keep his gaze from traveling past the person sitting behind the Belgium maple wood desk and onto the panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean.

  Focusing his attention, Munoz pulled out a business card and extended his hand. A quick shake from a weak grip followed. The man was older and appeared to be somewhere is his mid to late 50s.

  “I’m Detective Jose Munoz with the Seattle PD.”

  “So I understand. I’m Harold Moss. What can I do for you?”

  Munoz continued to shift his gaze around the room. Framed degrees, several shelves of personal pictures, awards, photos with bosses and co-workers provided a glimpse into the career path of a successful businessman.

  “I’m looking into an unusual pattern of suicides, Mr. Moss. For some reason, an unusually high percentage of these people had deal
ings with your bank.”

  Moss shrugged. “I’m failing to see the relevance. Is it coincidental?”

  “Do you know a Theresa Armstrong, Mr. Moss?”

  Moss curled his lip slightly, and he closed his eyes as if trying to remember. “Hmmm… No, I don’t recall the name, Detective. I meet a lot of people in my capacity at the bank, of course.

  “Of course, I understand.” Munoz reached into a file folder and extracted several of the loan documents that contained signatures from Moss and tossed them on the desk. “The woman committed suicide, Mr. Moss. She was deeply in debt and despondent. Your collection efforts seemed—excessively aggressive.”

  Moss picked up a few of the documents and scanned them. “Detective, we have thousands of active loans at any given time. The economy is growing more difficult; sometimes the borrower can’t pay us or meet their other obligations. Maybe they lost their job. Suicide is heartbreaking but somewhat understandable considering the circumstances. Honestly, I’m failing to see what this has to do with the bank.”

  “Probably nothing. Still, it seems rather odd that your investment banking division managed to lose $2.5 million of her money in less than two years.”

  Moss punched the keyboard of his computer for several seconds and then moved the mouse while scrolling over the screen. He grabbed his reading glasses and peered down at a set of numbers, which remained hidden from Munoz’ view. “I can’t comment on this, Detective. I sign off on many transactions in the course of a day. Some make our clients tremendous amounts of money, sometimes clients lose money. There are no guarantees, I’m afraid.”

  Munoz reached into his file and pulled out another stack of loosely bound papers. “Do you happen to remember a customer named Louis Chesser?”

  Again Moss looked briefly at the documents and shook his head. “No, as I said, we have over 10,000 clients.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t remember him. He was a high-profile customer with the bank many years ago. His loans were called, which caused his business to fail. Granted, I’m not a banker, but his personal and business balance sheets looked pretty strong at the time. He committed suicide as well, you know.”

  Moss appeared to be looking at the documents more carefully. “Detective, these papers are 20 years old. I was a loan officer at the time and simply following procedure. What is the relevance of this?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Moss. I was hoping you could help me with that. Did you know that during the last ten years more than 700 people who banked at Bellevue committed suicide? That’s a startling statistic. No other bank even comes close to those numbers.”

  Moss paused and seemed to contemplate his next words. “I am in a difficult business, Detective Munoz. We loan out a lot of money, and I’m paid to make decisions that benefit the bank even if a customer is negatively impacted. Our analysis may contradict someone else’s. There are many reasons we might call a loan. If 700 people with a relationship with this bank killed themselves over a 10-year period, I would suggest that is coincidental. I would suspect that each of those individuals had far more problems in their lives than a bad investment or loan recall.”

  “You’re probably right, Mr. Moss. But I'm going to review and reconstruct the lives of each one of those 700 victims. If I find circumstances similar to that of Lou Chesser and Theresa Armstrong, we’ll talk further.”

  “Excuse me, but that’s rather absurd, Detective. And I must say, it’s also offensive. In light of what you’ve told me, I think it’s in my best interest to seek out counsel. If you will excuse me for a second, I’m going to get our attorney to come up for this meeting.”

  Munoz waved him off. “No need, Mr. Moss. For goodness sake, you aren’t being charged with any crime. Besides, I know you’re a busy man, and I’ve taken up way too much of your time.” Rising from his chair, Munoz again extended a hand to Harold Moss. “I’ll let myself out.”

  Moss accepted and offered an obligatory smile. “Certainly. And detective…”

  “Yes?”

  “We have a promotion that offers a full one percent for new accounts with an opening balance over $1000.

  Munoz chuckled and walked back toward the exit, keenly aware of the penetrating stare that followed him. He reached into his pocket and extracted his cell phone, which vibrated constantly all through the meeting with Moss. It was the office, and he hit the speed dial to return the call.

  “What’s up Yolanda?”

  “Jose, you asked me to let you know when the next 10-56A was reported. We just got a call about a suicide, apparently from the victim. But then I got a 10-22 right afterward canceling it. I don’t know; it kind of struck me as odd. Do you want the name and address?”

  “Yeah, text it to me. I’ve got an interview on the Sosa case, but I’ll stop by and check it out on my way home.”

  “I’m sending it out now. See you, sweetie.”

  “Yolanda, if I was ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter…”

  She laughed and enjoyed the comfortable playfulness that years of working together had forged. “Promises, promises. Have a good day, Detective.”

  After some moments his phone chimed and the vitals came up on the screen: Curtis Roberts, Sun Valley Mobile Home Park, Unit 12, 116 W 16th Lane.

  ***

  The plane had touched down at Sea-Tac International in Seattle without incident. Considering the events of the past 24 hours, both Anston and Zach considered themselves fortunate to be alive and still moving forward.

  They used the flight time to catch up on some needed sleep, although Zach suffered from horrific nightmares that woke him several times in a near panic. The encounter with Maybel Downey and the strange intruder had changed everything. For many moments following the pursuit and assault outside the restaurant, Zach was mired in a flight/fight dilemma. He knew that running wouldn’t stop the visions; they were growing stronger and occurring with greater frequency. Despite his desire to flee, he felt there was no other choice but to continue on.

  Standing at the rental counter, Anston said, “Zach, I need to call Carly. I have no clue how I’m going to explain this.”

  “I understand, Jarad. I’ll get the car.” He grabbed his friend by the shoulder as he turned. “Remember, I understand if you need to leave.”

  “It’s all right, Zach. As you said in Vegas, I’m already involved…”

  Anston disappeared for a few minutes while Randall secured the rental car. He looked around as people scurried in every direction, trying to make time for flights that always seemed behind schedule. Everyone appeared suspicious. It’s hard to trust when something sinister is in pursuit.

  Moving swiftly through the airport, they boarded a shuttle, which drove them out to an enormous lot of parked vehicles. After securing the rental, Anston maneuvered onto Route 518 and eventually merged with I-405 north. The lights of the passing cars flashed and illuminated the gaunt faces of the fleeing duo.

  Zach’s voice finally pierced the silence. “We attended a fair number of sessions together, didn’t we Jarad?”

  “Yeah, we sure did. You were there twice a month for what, almost a year?”

  Looking over from the passenger’s side, Zach ran his hand through his oily hair. “I told the group almost every detail about my suicide. Yet, you never really told us anything. Why won’t you ever talk about it?”

  Anston glanced over briefly. “Well, I was the counselor, Zach. I’m not comfortable talking about myself while I’m leading a group.”

  “I thought the best way to face the demons is to talk about them with others who share similar experiences. Or was that all just bullshit?”

  Anston gripped the wheel tighter. “You were the last one that joined the group, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. What does that have to do with it?”

  “The rest of them know what happened.”

  “And I’m left in the dark because I’m the new guy? Are you serious?”

  “Working through a suicide att
empt isn’t easy, Zach. There’s the mental part, which the doctors deal with, and the emotional and spiritual part, which often is ignored. We deal with those issues. A new member has enough internal conflict to work through without burdening themselves with the horrible stories from others. If you think about it, you really didn’t hear many details of anyone’s attempt.”

  “I know Fitzsimons cut himself. Mary Jansen took oxycodone…”

  “Sure, you know the ‘how’ part of the act, but do you really know why they did it?”

  “I—I guess I don’t,” said Zach. “I never really thought about it like that.”

  “You weren’t ready, not in your condition.”

  “And now?”

  Anston puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. He grabbed a bottled water and took a long swallow. “I killed my son.”

  Zach’s back stiffened and he looked at his friend as Anston’s eyes teared up. “I’m sorry, Jarad, I didn’t even know you and Carly had a child. I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “No, it’s ok, there are times when I can talk about it. I was late for a meeting that day. In a past life, I worked in advertising. In fact, I owned the firm. It’s a ruthless business; cutthroat, brutal, and time means everything. I grabbed my coffee and ran to the car, jumped in, and slammed it into reverse. I never noticed Paulie sitting in the driveway playing with his toys behind the car. I hit him and rolled over him, and he was caught under the car, wedged in.

  “He was screaming, crying, ‘help me, help me daddy,’ over and over. I couldn’t get him free. By the time Carly ran out from the house, he was dead.”

  The monotonous sound of tires contacting the pavement filled the empty space inside the vehicle. They traveled for several miles without talking before Anston regained his composure.

  “When the fire department EMTs removed him, Paulie's body was crushed. The next few days passed in a blur, but I just sank further into a deep, dark hole.

  “After the funeral was over, I packed a few things and drove all the way out to L.A. I checked into a flea bag hotel in Inglewood and stayed blind drunk. On the third night, I took the car out and crashed it into a concrete bridge support on I-5—on purpose.