A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1)

by M. E. Purfield

  “Me, too.”

  “Fuck it.”

  I click the play button and the video begins. The camera reveals the same studio set I was in yesterday. I recognize the curtains, the mattress, even the milk crates and metal garbage can. From the right of the screen, Fanny falls onto the bed as if someone threw her. Under normal circumstances, she would look beautiful in the little bustier and garter belt with her blond wig, but the gray masking tape on her hands and wrists kill the arousal aspect. She squirms and screams through the ball gag in her mouth. A man steps into frame. He wears a leather head mask and a black leather g-string. The rest of his body is covered with myriad tattoos. I recognize some prison ink like my dad and Uncle Tony have from their stints. All of them are scary looking, but the vicious panther on leatherhead’s forearm is the worst. Judging from his muscles and thickness, I don’t think the man is Devlin who I remember being a lot scrawnier.

  “This is not good,” Corey says.

  The masked man takes out a large hunting knife.

  “Okay. This has to be fake,” Corey says. “Please tell me this is fake.”

  Fanny’s fear overwhelms me into silence and perverse curiosity.

  A second man enters the left of the frame. It’s Devlin. Although he’s also wearing a black leather mask, he still has the same shitty Hawaiian shirt I saw him in yesterday. Even the bloodstain where I stabbed his shoulder is there. He moves closer to her as she tries to squirm away. Devlin manages to slip a blindfold over Fanny’s eyes and then backs out of the shot.

  The masked man runs the knife around Fanny’s arms, then breasts, and then face. The poor girl screams and shivers. Her belly rises up and down so fast. My heart pounds and my skin shivers.

  “Miki, you okay.”

  I hug myself, trying to keep from shaking out of my flesh.

  Fanny screams and shakes as loud as she can. I doubt anyone is going to hear her.

  “Turn this off, Miki. Please.”

  The masked man turns to the camera and looks at us. I hear a faint chuckle. With both hands, he brings the knife up and stabs down…

  …the knife plunges into my belly and slices through my stomach…I shiver…I thrash…the knife stabs over and over…the masked face leans over me ...a popping explodes inside me… his enraged blue eyes stare into mine...coughing blood…his grunting…stabbing… over and over…grunting…giggling…as…

  …all…

  … goes…

  …deep…

  …black…

  THE PLAN

  “Miki? Wake up.”

  I open my eyes to Corey’s pasty concerned face. I smell puke.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  For someone who died two times this week, I could be better. This time by video which is so weird. I have never felt this way when watching a horror movie. Then again, those films are staged. Fanny’s death was real.

  I hold my stomach and feel the flesh under my sweater. It’s smooth and tight, no sign of stab wounds even though the muscles and stomach ache underneath and there are black and blue marks where the knife entered.

  “I hate this shit, Core. I really do.”

  I sit up and look around the room. I’m on the floor, next to the tipped over chair. The computer is off.

  “Did you puke?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry. I did it in the pail.”

  “Help me up?”

  Corey grabs my arm and places me on the bed. He sits down at my side. I breathe deep hoping to relieve the pain in my gut. It feels like it was punched a billion times. At least I’m not nauseous.

  “You have to call the police, Miki.”

  “I know. I will.”

  “I have never seen anything so sick in my life.”

  I smirk. “Try experiencing it.”

  Corey lies back on the bed and curls into a fetal position. I reach over for my cell on the night table and dial Sampson’s number. It goes to voice mail.

  “Shit,” I mutter.

  After the beep, I say, “Hi, Detective Otto. This is Miki Radicci. Listen, I think I might have something for you about Katherine Moore. She worked for a site called Red Velvet Pocket. So did a girl named Chloe Bateman who died last year and the girl who was killed last night, Fanny Lee. If you swipe the pink over the pictures like the site says, you know, with your mouse, then I think you’ll have proof of their deaths. Yeah, I know this sounds crazy. Listen, just call me back when you get this message, ok?”

  I hang up and sit on the bed. The pain in my stomach is almost gone. My hands shake, but not from fear. I should be doing something. I just know that this Devlin guy is slicker than owl shit and wouldn’t be running a site like Red Velvet Pocket if he thought cops could access it so easily. They might have a firewall that detects state funded computers and servers.

  “We need something hard,” I tell Corey. “We need proof in our hand.”

  “Miki, I really don’t think…”

  “Corey. We have to get this guy.”

  “Miki, did you see what kind of fucking monster that guy is? And you want to do what? Break into his place and get the murder weapon?”

  I remember the bloodstained clothes behind the Asian partition. If they’re so lazy about getting rid of stuff like that, then chances are Fanny’s clothes will be there too.

  “Maybe it’s there. The murder just happened last night. I doubt they’re the kind of guys who would clean up right away. They’ve been doing this a long time. They feel safe. They probably have the fucking knife sitting on the floor next to the bed.”

  “No.”

  “Please, Corey. I need you to help me.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  Corey sighs hard. “I hate you.”

  I smile and kiss his cheek.

  COFFEE AND PATIENCE

  Corey and I sit in a diner across the street from Red Velvet Pocket’s office. The sun starts to set as we order our third coffee from the waitress who doesn’t appear too thrilled. I ignore her dirty glances and check out the entrance of the building.

  Before we took our seats, I went to the payphone on the corner - one of the few that are still around or even work in the city - and dialed the office number. When Devlin (at least it sounded like him) picked up, I hung up.

  “Still think this is a bad idea,” Corey says. “We should just let your cop friend handle it.”

  “I’ve been calling him and leaving him messages,” I say, trying to hold back the aggravation in my voice. “The guy is not taking my calls.”

  “Yeah, well. I still think it’s a mistake.”

  My cell phone vibrates on the table. Corey and I look at it. I’m sure he’s hoping its Detective Otto. In a way I am too. But the ID on the screen shows Chris’s number.

  “I better take this one. I’ve been avoiding him all day.”

  “Hey, cutie,” I say into the phone.

  “How’s my sexy little artist?” Chris asks.

  I smile. “Doing good. How is the future CEO of Chandler Chemicals doing?”

  “Well, to be honest, I could be better. Today’s classes just about kicked my ass. When can I come pick you up?”

  I bite my lower lip, then say, “I can’t. I have plans with Corey tonight.”

  “Oh.” I can hear the disappointment in his voice. “Okay, then.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “No. Don’t be silly. Girl needs to see her friends. I’ll just stay home and study tonight.”

  “Yeah, I was wondering when you get that stuff done.”

  “Lately, so have I. Been wanting to spend all my time with you. I’m a little glad you’re blowing me off tonight. I do have some papers to write.”

  “I’m not blowing you off. But if you ever need to get work done, I completely understand. Okay?”

  “Okay. Call you tomorrow?”

  “You better.”

  “Bye, super sweetie.”

  “Bye.”

  I close the pho
ne and put it back on the table.

  “God, that grin is so horrible on your face,” Corey says. “Reminds me of The Joker.”

  I smirk and sip my coffee. “Fuck you.”

  An hour later, Devlin comes out of the building. I can’t make out his face, but I can see him wearing one of those ugly, loud Hawaiian shirts under his open coat.

  “Alright. You’re on.” I leave money for the coffee and pocket my cell.

  Corey slips on his winter denim jacket. “Not too late to back out.”

  “Fuck that. This will be so easy.” We rush out the diner. “If someone is there still, I’ll call you and we can try later.”

  “And if you go in, I give you an update in ten minutes or if he heads back.”

  “See. You do get it,” I say.

  I push Corey down the sidewalk. He takes off in the same direction as Devlin. I walk back to the pay phone and call the office. No one picks up and it goes straight to voice mail. To be safe, I try again in case someone’s in the bathroom. Nope. No one picks up. But the muscle guy from the video could be around and not be interested in talking on the phone.

  At the glass door of the building, I press a few of the buttons. Voices blare out of the intercom asking who’s there. I keep silent until I get the response I want. And I do. The door buzzes and I push my way inside the building. I slip my hands in my pocket, walk up to the 3rd floor, and try to act like I belong here if one of those people I bothered steps out to question my existence. When I get to the office door of Red Velvet Pocket, I press my back to the wall and knock on it. I wait. I knock again, a little louder. No one’s home. From my inside jacket pocket I take out Uncle Tony’s lock picks (“Just hold them for me until I get out.”) and kneel down. Like he taught me years ago – all tweens should know how to pick a lock - I gently manipulate the metal inside. Ten minutes later, the door opens and I pack them away. Back on my feet, I grab the doorknob and slowly open the door.

  The office is empty. I take the bright penlight from my pocket and turn it on. I close the door and walk to the room opposite the studio. I kneel down to the locked door and work the picks as I hold the light with my teeth. This one is easier than the outside lock. I open the door and step inside. The room is sparse with a few digital camera and lighting equipment. It must be a storage closet. I notice a desktop computer set up in the far corner. I sit down in the chair and scan my light over the desk. To the right of the flat screen monitor is a plastic case filled with CDs. It has one of those cheepo locks on it. I don’t even need to use the picks. I take out my butterfly knife and twist the lock open. Each disc is dated. The latest one scrawled with the same date as Fanny Lee’s murder. Looks like the discs only go back one year. They probably have the earlier ones locked up safe somewhere. That is, if they have been doing this for a long time. Oddly enough I don’t see one with Katherine Moore’s date. Hmm, then again, would I? She was murdered in the alley and I didn’t notice a camera during the act. Which only leads me to believe she might have been killed for other reasons. Maybe she knew what was up with Devlin and they had to take her out.

  I slip the Fanny Lee disc into my inside jacket pocket and lock the case up. This proof is better than the dirty clothes.

  I leave the room and relock the door from the inside. Curious to see if my assumption is right, that they’re too comfortable with their crimes, I walk across the office to the studio. For some reason, it isn’t locked. I step inside and find a browning blood stained mattress reeking of death.

  “Oh, man.” I cover my nose with my free hand and breath through my mouth.

  I back away and take out my cell phone. I snap a few shots of the bed. The flash breaks the darkness like lightning. Shit. Will someone see it through the windows? Then I notice that they’re curtained off.

  I move to the Asian partition and the hamper filled with bloody clothes. The same slip from yesterday is on top. So what did they do with Fanny’s clothes? The material crunches and feels hard as I shove them into a plastic zip-lock bag I keep in my pocket.

  I tuck the bag into my jacket when the cell vibrates in my pants. I take the phone out and see that it’s Corey.

  “What’s up?” I whisper.

  “He’s on his way back,” he says. “And he’s not alone.”

  “Where is he?”

  “They just left a bar about three blocks away.”

  That should give me plenty of time to avoid his path.

  “Okay. I’m on my way out” I say. “Meet you at the diner in a few minutes.”

  “Okay. Be careful, Miki.”

  I close the phone and slip it into my back pants pocket. I scan the room to make sure I didn’t move anything. I step out into the office and head to the front door.

  The doorknob jiggles as someone on the other side unlocks it.

  Fuck!

  I rush back into the studio. Just as I close the door, I hear someone walking across the hard wood floor in the office. I scan around the room for a place to hide. Next to the partition and behind the rack of clothes is another door. I open it and find a tiny bathroom. I slip inside and lean against the closed door. The other side is quiet. The guy outside must still be in the office.

  Shit. Shit. Shit!

  Judging from the silence in the office, it isn’t Devlin with the new person who left the bar. The footsteps grow louder; someone’s in the studio. I turn to the bathroom and spot a tiny window that would barely fit my head. Directly across the stained toilet is a bathtub. I ease the curtain to the side, step in, and avoid crunching the dead water bugs. The plastic curtain seems thick enough that no one should see me in here.

  The bathroom door creaks open and the light turns on. I keep still, holding my breath. The steps cease. Porcelain tapping together breaks the silence. The sound of a busted pipe and a man groaning. Okay, I think, just calm down. Once he’s done pissing he’ll leave. Fat chance he’ll take a shower. I look down at the tub and see a red rim stain by the drain. I imagine that big tattooed guy washing Fanny’s blood off in here.

  A zipper rips up, followed by the toilet flushing.

  Yes!

  The cell vibrates in my back pocket.

  No!

  My eyes widen. I pull the phone out and squeeze my hand around it. I silence the vibration and catch Otto Sampson’s name on the LED screen.

  I breathe slow through my nose and listen hard. I don’t hear any footsteps, just the pounding of my heart.

  C’mon, c’mon, c’mon leave!

  The curtain whips to the side and a huge bald guy with vicious brown eyes and tattooed vines reaching for his face grabs my neck. He presses me to the tiles. I gasp, drop my cell, and try to pull his meat hooks off my esophagus. I rip my nails into his flesh, but he doesn’t budge or seem affected. Unless smiling counts.

  He pulls me out of the tub by my neck and tosses me across the bathroom. My head smashes into the mirror and my butt lands in the sink.

  Blackness.

  THE BENEFITS OF GOING ROGUE?

  I wake up and try to move my arms bound tight behind my back. My feet are roped together, too. A stinging throbs the back of my head, probably where it broke the mirror. I recognize the scent of decayed blood and realize I’m on the soiled mattress in the studio.

  The bullhead, baldy guy who kicked my ass in the bathroom sits in a chair next to the stereo system. He smiles, smokes a cigarette and stares with his cold eyes. He wears a black wife beater t-shirt which shows off the vicious panther tattoo on his arms. He has to be the guy that wore the mask and killed Fanny Lee on the site. He uncrosses his denim-clad legs and stands up from the chair.

  “She’s up,” he shouts. I can hear a slight Russian accent, or maybe Polish.

  Devlin and some other guy walk in from the office. He stands at the bed and crosses his arms. The guy next to him, a skeevy looking white guy with long dreaded blond hair wearing the usual dirt bag, junkie uniform of jeans, flannel shirt, and black boots lingers at his side. He seems out of his element, unsur
e where to lay his eyes. Maybe he’s new to the gang.

  “Well, fucking, well,” Devlin says. “Came back to finish me off?”

  I don’t answer him. I’m sure he doesn’t want one. I just squirm on the bed and try to free my arms, which is a useless endeavor since they tied them so tight.

  “Heh?” He taps his foot to mine.

  “What? You want me to answer you?”

  He and Bullhead smirk. Devlin kneels down and grabs my face, almost making my cheeks meet in my mouth. His features twist in pain, probably from where I stabbed him. “You really fucking hurt me. Laura Bush, right?”

  “Good.”

  He spits tobacco soaked saliva on my face and then slaps my cheek lightly.

  “Well, consider it your one free pass. Hm?”

  “What are we going to do with her?” Bullhead asks.

  “Oh, I know exactly what to do with her. But first I want to know what she’s doing here.”

  “Asshole, you know what she’s doing here,” Bullhead says. “We found the clothes and the disc on her.”

  Devlin glares at him. “I’m talking, so would you kindly fuck up your mouth?”

  Bullhead shakes his head and sighs.

  Devlin turns back to me. “Last time you were here, you mentioned some of my girl’s names. Fanny was one of them. Now we catch you with her disc. But if you knew that I filmed her that night, then you must know Chloe? Hm? Came here to be a hero. Avenge your friend’s death?”

  “No. Not Chloe. Katherine.”

  “Who?”

  “She means Betty Blue Blood,” Bullhead says. “The girl from last week.”

  “Her? No. No. I don’t believe it. You think I’m that stupid?”

  “It doesn’t take much to think you’re stupid,” I say.

  Bullhead laughs.

  Devlin stands up and kicks my ribs. I scream out as tears rush to my eyes.

  “Whatever your reason, you’re gonna get your chance. You want to be one of my Red Velvet Pocket girls, then that’s what you’re going to be.”

  “Hey, D,” the Skeevy Guy behind him says. “Are we gonna call this a night?”

  Devlin peers right into my eyes. “No,” he says to him. “You want to get one of my girls. Then I will keep my word and you will get one of my girls.”