A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1)

by M. E. Purfield

  So far the police have no leads, but there’s a witness (me) and because of their age they can’t reveal their name.

  “Yes.”

  I check the rest of the paper and make sure no one ran any of those pictures from last night.

  “Good news?” Corey asks from across the room.

  “Yeah, looks like I can move on with my life.”

  “Oh, you mean as a famous alcoholic artist?”

  “Yes, that one,” I say and then flip him a bird.

  I skim the rest of the paper when Corey starts hammering nails into the frame.

  …my thumb explodes with pain…

  Corey and I scream out. He drops his hammer and sucks on his thumb. I shake my hand, trying to throw off the throbbing just under the fingernail.

  “God damn it, Corey.”

  “Gee, like I wanted to hit my thumb on purpose,” he mumbles over the digit.

  I keep my mouth shut and wait for the pain to subside. He’s right. It’s not his fault. It’s mine for being cursed.

  CLEARING THE BRAIN OF PAIN

  After Corey leaves for school, I sit alone with my blank canvas. I want to start working on the sketches from my pads, but another image keeps pushing in my mind. Grabbing a pencil and bypassing the early draft stage, I step up to the 4X5 foot white space and clear my brain. Pencil to the gesso, my hand glides across the rough surface. I start on the killer’s shapes, angled to look up from the alley floor. I don’t remember much in detail. It was a dark alley. But I reveal the bowler, the overcoat with the collar up, and the hand holding the knife, just about ready to stab me in the stomach.

  I stop and sit for a minute. There’s something else. Or someone else.

  I walk to the stereo, pop in a Bowery Electric CD, and return to the canvas. My conscious focuses on the drawing while my subconscious absorbs the eclectic music and drum machine beats. I hold the memory, the moment in my mind, trying to make it clearer. And then I see it. Yes, right there behind the killer, just over his shoulder. I start to sketch the wrinkled face, the angry eyes, the flared nostrils, and the pointed ears.

  I step back and shake my head.

  “I thought you were there.”

  Although I don’t have a name for him, I’ve been drawing this evil face for as long as I remember. After I experience someone else’s pain - pain perpetrated by another human being - this face is always hidden somewhere. I know it’s not of a real person. Sometimes I would see it in odd and inhuman places like open cabinets or windows five stories above the ground. I’m sure a shrink would have a field day with me if I ever talk about it; probably tell me I have deep issues with my father. Maybe I do. But I doubt the face has anything to do with that.

  Anyway, I make myself another cup of coffee and sit in an office chair in front of the canvas. Another part of my process is to relax and let the details float to the top of my brain. For as long as it takes. And it does. I stand up with the fresh bit of information and sketch the shapes by the killer’s wrist: sort of like a turd tapered at the end. It has six legs, three on each side. I’m about to stand back when I remember something else. The tapered side has three sticks, one in the center, and two on either side that curve out.

  The door buzzer blares over the music.

  “Fuck.” I slam the pencil down and spin around. I hate when this happens. I check the clock and see that it’s too early for Grandpa or Corey, and they would never be stupid enough to ring the buzzer. The mailman? Unless it’s a new guy Bernard knows not to ring it either.

  I walk to the door and press the talk button.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Michelina Radicci, please.”

  I hit the wall next to the speaker. “Yeah, speaking. What?”

  “This is Detective Otto Sampson of the NYPD. We met last night.”

  “I remember.”

  “I would like to have a word with you, please.”

  I sigh and buzz him in. It’s not like he’s going to arrest me. I can’t imagine that they found new damning evidence. Sharon’s too good a lawyer to let that happen. I just hope he doesn’t plan on talking to me about the murder. I’m so not in the mood. Shit, I should have told him to meet later.

  I wait by the door and spot Detective Sampson walking down the hall. Alone. He wears the same suit I saw him in last. His face droops down and his eyes look sunken. The poor guy was probably up all night.

  “Where’s your sidekick?” I ask.

  “Detective Hersh? He’s running a few leads, talking to family.” He smiles. Damn. If he weren’t a cop twice my age, I would so put a move on him. Yes, I’m sixteen, but come on. A little Lolita action would be fun.

  I hold the door open and show the detective in. “Shouldn’t you be doing the same?”

  “I will. But I’m chasing another lead. That’s why they have us in pairs.”

  I close the door and cross my arms. “Listen, do I need my lawyer for this? I thought I was cleared as a suspect.”

  Sampson wanders to my work area. “You are. But like I said at the station, I still think you’ll be useful to the investigation.”

  He stops at my latest project and tilts his head to the side. “I’m sorry. Did I interrupt you working?”

  I stand next to him, mentally willing him to stop looking at my unfinished work. “Yeah. So if you don’t mind, can we make this short?”

  Sampson turns and smiles. “Of course. First off.” He reaches into his wool overcoat pocket and takes out a clangy piece of metal. He offers my butterfly knife.

  “Oh, my God.” I take it from him. “I didn’t think I would see it again.”

  “The medical examiner concluded that the weapon used was much bigger than this one. I see no reason to keep it.”

  I flip the knife around like an experienced ninja and open the blade. “Thanks.” I flip it closed and slip it into my back jean pocket.

  “Sentimental?” he asks.

  “Belonged to my uncle. He gave it to me before he left.”

  “Moved away?”

  “No. Jail.”

  “I bet there’s a long and interesting story to that.”

  I cross my arms and give him the hard eyes. “There is. But we shouldn’t waste time about it. You have a killer to catch.”

  “Yes.” He grins. “I do. Speaking of, I take it this latest work is of the murder?”

  “Yeah. But don’t worry. I’m not displaying it, or selling it. It’ll just be part of my private collection.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I shrug and act mute. I don’t want to get into why all the works of the evil face are locked up in storage. Not even Corey, Grandpa, Uncle Tony, or my parents have seen them or even know about the face.

  “Well, anyway. I guess I came for some answers. My question is how did a young woman who was blocks away from a murder and has not even inspected the body know in such great detail how the victim was killed?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  He shakes his head and sighs.

  “I mean, I can sort of tell you,” I say. “I just can’t tell you why.”

  “What?”

  “I have psychic empathy. Sort of like telepathy. Okay?” I shoot out. “If you don’t mind, keep this to yourself. Last thing I need are asshole reporters giving me shit about it.”

  I wait for him to laugh or doubt me or flash me a look like I’m crazy. He doesn’t. He just watches me and waits for me to say more.

  “It’s like being a psychic,” I say. “I mean, I can’t see into people’s futures or pasts…It’s like…I’m this antenna, a receiver, and I pick up people’s negative emotions, mostly their pain. Then I experience them. Like there was this one time we had this couple living above us, and the guy was always beating the woman. That was so not a good time. I had pains in my arms and bruises broke out around my stomach and back. It took a long time for you guys to finally arrest him. That bitch was crazy, though. You know the story: Girl loves the guy so much she thinks one day he w
ill stop kicking her ass and change. Shit like that.”

  “Okay,” Sampson says.

  “So why aren’t you leaving?”

  “Because I’m still listening.”

  “You believe me?”

  “I’ve heard stranger. And it’s the only thing that makes sense right now.”

  “You’re fucking weird,” I say, walking off to a window.

  Sampson laughs.

  “Listen, I know you didn’t kill anyone. The victim walked down that alley, probably because she knew her killer. There is no sign of a struggle, and all evidence supports she was killed in that alley,” Sampson says. “We showed your picture to the victim’s family and friends and they have no clue who you are. I double-checked to make sure that you and the victims haven’t crossed paths before and to be honest your lives are on opposite ends of the spectrum. I guess you could say she was a social girl and you’re a hermit. When your lawyer mentioned her name to you back at the station, you had no idea who she was either. I don’t think you’re lying. So yes. I do believe you until there is evidence to think otherwise.”

  I turn to him. “Great. Thanks. So what do you want from me?”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe there was something you can tell me. A clue, a lead, something that we missed. So far we have no suspects. The crime scene is a busy area, so it’s hard to gather solid evidence. This girl was a good kid with a bright future. She didn’t run with a bad crowd. She partied like any other college kid, but kept clean and functional; never came to class drunk. She had a boyfriend, but the relationship was still new and he has an alibi for last night. No one has a bad word to say about her. If this keeps up, the killer is going to get away.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Yes, you do.” He points to the canvas. “I think you can tell us something by showing us what the victim saw. Maybe there’s a detail that can lead to their identity.”

  “You want me to draw and paint every painful moment so you can scrutinize it?”

  “Looks like you started already.”

  “No offense, but you’re nuts. Forget it. It’s bad enough that I experienced this girl’s death. I don’t want to have to keep reliving it. It was not fun being stabbed in the stomach.”

  “I would imagine.”

  “No. You can’t imagine. I’d like to forget it. This is the last and only picture I’m doing of it, just so I can purge the memory. Then I will lock this away until I die and some curator finds it and shows it to the world. By then it won’t matter.”

  Defeat weighs down Sampson’s features. “I understand. It’s a crazy idea anyway.”

  “Uh, you do? Great.”

  “Do you mind if I take some notes of your sketch?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

  I sit down in my comfy chair and wait for him to finish writing.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  I turn, hoping he’s not going to ask about the evil face in the background. Instead he’s pointing to the strange shape at the killer’s wrist.

  “Dunno. You?”

  Sampson shakes his head and carefully duplicates my drawing.

  Done, he hands me a business card from out of his pocket. “If you get anything new, would you please contact me?”

  I pocket the card. “Yeah. But I’m sure I wont.”

  He nods and smiles grim. “Thanks for talking to me.”

  Detective Sampson shows himself out. I sit back into my office chair and stare at the canvas. I try to relax, breathe deep, and stretch my muscles. Nothing floats out to my brain.

  “Shit,” I say.

  I grab the pencil and try to run it across the canvas, but I just can’t get my hand to do it. I throw the pencil across the room and stomp off to my bedroom. I slip on my Docs and jacket and leave the apartment. Maybe some icy winter air will clear my head.

  GIGGLE TREATMENT

  I pay for the bottle of whisky and the Indian man behind the counter of the bodega slips it into a brown paper bag. I study his face for a trace of fear or suspicion; for any sign that he knows my ID is fake. None. His expression is so blank. Not like I’m worried. My IDs are pristine. Uncle Tony is a great teacher, and I am a great student. Unfortunately he isn’t a great criminal since he got busted and sent to prison.

  Outside, I slip the buds back into my ears and press play on the MP3 player in my leather jacket pocket. The mix folder of Sonic Youth tracks fills my head as I brave the winter winds up West Street to Pier 25. I rush past the basketball courts and the skate park. Even though it’s in the low thirties today, some kids are stupid enough to play ball or ride the curves. Normally the basketball players don’t bother me. It’s rare that a fight would break out or someone would scrape their knee on the court. But the skaters are something to worry about. I am so not in the mood to experience a busted arm or a crack on the head. It’s a shame though. I wish I could just hang out and watch the boys skate; some of them are pretty cute.

  I turn onto Pier 25 and walk through the playground. A few parents and nannies supervise bundled up toddles on the jungle gyms. A couple of old men, probably homeless from the looks of their black stained jackets, sit on the benches. I stop at a bench farther down to avoid any misery that they have in them. I daze off at the Jersey City business district as the boats and ferries trek back and forth across the Hudson. I sip the whisky and ignore the dirty looks people give me for drinking in a park. Not like I’m some hobo, like that crazy make-up lady that found my body the other night. I make just as much as those yuppies that think they’re superior.

  As hard as I distract myself and try to concentrate on my art, I still can’t get the conversation with Detective Sampson out of my head. I mentally curse at myself and threaten that I will throw my bottle into the river if I think of the murder one more time. It’s over. I doubt Detective Sampson will bother me again or that I’ll read about it in the paper in a few days. I should just get on with my life.

  I close my eyes, sip more whisky, and feel the calming effects as it mixes with my antidepressants. My sleepy brain sways, wrapped in a chemical cushion, as Sonic Youth eases into a long noise solo in the middle of the extended cut of “Diamond Sea.” Oh, yes. I will be so ready to work when I get home.

  The phone vibrates on my hip.

  “Shit!”

  I put the music on pause and pull the cell out of my pocket. The number reads unlisted. I should let it go to voice mail, but sometimes Sharon comes up as unlisted. I press the button and bring the phone to my head.

  “What’s up, Sharon,” I say.

  No one answers.

  “Uh, hello. Sharon?”

  “No,” a raspy voice says. They’re right. It doesn’t sound at all like Sharon, not even after she’s done screaming at a witness. But the thing is I can’t even tell if the caller is male or female.

  I sigh. “Well, who is it?”

  “Who is this?”

  “C’mon, you called me.”

  The raspy voice giggles. A chill vibrates my spine.

  “You got the wrong fucking number, asshole. Good-bye.”

  I disconnect the call and go to tuck it back into my pocket when the phone vibrates again. The same unlisted number pops up. I should just let it go to voice mail. I really don’t want to hear that giggle again.

  “Listen, asshole,” I say into the phone. “You got the wrong number so just fuck off.”

  The raspy giggle again, then, “I have the right number…Michelina Radicci.”

  I hug the shivers racing through my body. “Uh, who is this?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No. And you know me, so that’s kind of unfair, don’t you think?”

  “All you need to know is that I’m going to gut you like I did that little whore.”

  I scan the park as my heart pounds in my chest. Kids scream, parents and nannies shout concerns, and the homeless men doze. As far as I can tell, no one is on their cell.


  The raspy giggle. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  I keep quiet. If I say I do, then it will come true, right?

  “Speak!”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know who you are.”

  “And you thought you were so smart. You thought just because the press kept your name out of the paper that I wouldn’t know you saw me. But I know you. I know exactly what you are, you little whore.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  Giggle again. “Oh, maybe I got it from your Grandfather. Or maybe from that little bum boy you live with. Hmmm? Maybe. And just maybe I’m in your condo and they’re dead at my feet.”

  I close the phone and sprint off the bench, leaving the whisky to empty on the concrete. I pump my legs faster than my heart. I weave through the busy streets of yuppies getting off work and people moving in and out of tiny entrances to street stores. Images of that psycho in my private sanctum, standing over Grandpa and Corey’s dead bodies, flood my mind. I think about what they must have felt having the killer’s knife break through their skin and puncture their organs. By the time I reach my building on West Street, tears stream down my eyes and my lungs burn. I manage to get the key into the front door and take the stairs up two at a time to the third floor. I run down the hall and enter the apartment. I stop in my tracks and face my possible reality, one that would have me suffer the deaths of the two most important people in my life.