Dire Symbiosis

by William Seagroves

  To James, Marcus Williams represented every pimp on the planet. Three years earlier, Harden’s sister, Kelly, had run away from home to Chicago. The family searched in vain to find the girl, but were unable to locate her. Then, a call came from the Chicago Police. Kelly’s body had been found in a drainage ditch. She had been stabbed twenty-seven times.

  Harden was devastated, taking an entire month off from work. After his return, he learned that Kelly had been forced into prostitution by a pimp in Chicago, but the police were unable to gather sufficient evidence for a conviction. Frustrated with the justice system, Harden took a leave of absence. Marla was left in limbo for a while, covering stakeouts with other officers, and filling out excess paperwork. She began to worry if James would ever return.

  Then she received an urgent call from Shelley that James was in trouble and needed her. When she arrived at their apartment, she was shocked to find Harden drunk and despondent, sitting in a corner with his service revolver. He alternated drinking from a bottle of Jack Daniels and putting the gun in his mouth, threatening to end it all. Marla eventually talked him down and got the gun away from him. Then sat with him in the corner for hours, talking, hugging, and crying. She’d never realized until that moment how much she cared for him. Harden was her only friend and she vowed that she would help him get through his loss.

  With Shelley’s help, Marla got James on his feet and back to work. And work he did. Over the next two-and-a-half years Harden went on a personal crusade, putting in long hours in Homicide, then more hours downtown, dividing his time between speaking at the youth centers and PTA meetings on the importance of keeping kids off the street, and talking to the prostitutes on Broughton Street about the available job programs and drug rehabilitation. Progress was slow, but he was reaching some of the people. One of them was Tamika Jones. Before her death Tamika had signed up for drug rehabilitation. Marla was sure that her murder was a message to other girls.

  Turning onto Alabama Avenue, Marla searched for a parking space on the narrow street. She pulled the car to a halt two doors down from Williams’ building. Marla switched off the engine and they got out.

  As they walked along the sidewalk, she glanced at the run down apartment house. The anterior of the building was covered in ancient, weatherworn, Georgia brick. Several of the ground floor windows had been boarded over, giving the place a haunted appeal. The variegated hedges, spaced evenly around the outside, were in dire need of a trim. As they drew nearer, Marla noticed a curtain in one of the windows that was still intact flutter slightly. She glanced at James—he hadn’t missed it. They continued toward the entrance and stopped at the heavily reinforced door.

  James banged on the door. A moment later, after hearing a half dozen deadbolts disengaged, the door creaked open. On the other side stood a huge black man, at least six foot nine and three hundred and fifty pounds. He wore a sweat shirt with ‘Tommy’ emblazoned across the chest and sweat pants. A thick gold chain with a golden marijuana leaf hung around his neck and dark sunglasses on his face. He glared at them a moment, then said, “Sup.”

  Marla produced her badge and said, “I’m Detective Shaefer. This is my partner, James Harden, of the Savannah Police. We’re here to see Marcus Williams.”

  The man seemed to sneer. He called over his shoulder. “Yo! Marcus! Five-o’s here to see ya!”

  A muffled answer came from inside and the man stepped aside and let them enter. He pointed a thick finger to a set of stairs. “Marcus upstairs. Second door on the right.”

  The interior of the building was in a general state of disrepair. The plaster walls were riddled with deep gouges and the hardwood flooring sagged in places, groaning loudly when stepped upon. A threadbare rug ran the length of the hallway that was adjacent to the stairs with mounds of trash piled along the walls. But what was unnerving was the lack of light in the tiny vestibule they stood in. Marla could see that the light fixtures and their switches were broken and useless. She wondered how the man could see in the darkness while wearing his shades.

  The two detectives moved to the dilapidated stairs and ascended. As Harden placed his hand on the banister some of the molding came away in his hand. He glanced back at the man at the door. “Sorry,” he said, trying to replace the rotted piece of wood.

  Each step Marla took was accompanied by a groan of protest, the rickety stairs voicing their disapproval of being trod upon. The house had more aches and pains than an arthritic old man.

  At the top of the stairs, a narrow hallway led to the back of the house. Four doors led off the corridor, two on either side; none were open. However, ambient light came from under the second door on the right. They moved toward it, avoiding the piles of filth in the passage.

  Marla tapped on the door and entered, Harden was close behind.

  The room was completely renovated; wall-to-wall blue carpet covered the floor, a white chaise lounge with a blue bumblebee motif was positioned beside a matching sofa, a large glass coffee table with brass legs sat in the center of the room, and a projection screen television was flush against the wall opposite the sofa. Soft recessed lighting gave the room a welcoming atmosphere.

  Marcus Williams lay back in the deep folds of the sofa, watching the television, not bothering to acknowledge the new arrivals. Williams was thirty-five, six feet tall, weighing about one-ninety. His head was shaved with a moustache and goatee outlining his mouth. He had on a pair of yellow Gucci pajamas with a matching robe. A young white woman was manicuring Williams’ right hand, while a black woman did his feet. Without looking at Marla and Harden, Williams said, “What ya’ll want with me?”

  Seeing the look of disgust on Harden’s face, Marla steeped forward and said, “Just a few questions.”

  Williams finally glanced over at them and saw the look Harden was giving him. “What you looking at? You want something?”

  Harden’s turned a deep shade of red. Marla headed the confrontation off, placing a hand on her partner’s chest. “You’ll have to forgive my partner. He’s a little on edge today.”

  “Ain’t we all?” Williams said, still glaring at James.

  Marla cleared her throat. “ Mr. Williams, can you tell me of your whereabouts on the night of June eighteenth?”

  Williams broke eye contact with James and glanced at Marla. He seemed to ponder the question a moment, then said, “Yeah, me and some of my boys was at the Rib Hut til nine. Then went to a party in Savannah Gardens til late.”

  “How late is late?”

  “Bout two or three o’clock,” he said, pronouncing three as shree.

  “Fine,” Marla said, annotating his answer in her notepad.

  “Were you acquainted with a Tamika Jones?”

  Williams glanced at Harden again. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  “No, I think not,” Harden replied.

  “I seen you somewhere before.”

  “I’m sure I would have remembered.”

  “Mr. Williams,” Marla said, interrupting. “May I continue? Thank you.”

  “I’m sure I know him.”

  “Fine. Did you know Tamika Jones?” Marla asked again.

  “Yeah, I knew that bitch. Usta always see her around the neighborhood sellin’ that ass,” he spat.

  When Harden heard the contempt in Williams’ voice, he became increasingly angry. The look he gave Williams seemed as though it would wilt flowers.

  Marla looked up from her pad too. She made eye contact with the pimp. He gave her a smug smile as if to say ask your questions, I killed that bitch and I’m gonna get away with it.

  You bastard, Marla thought. She was on the verge of venting her anger when Williams looked to Harden.

  “Now I remember. You’re Casanova. That punk ass who’s been talking to all my bitches.”

  Harden was peering out the window when Williams made the statement. He turned around, not quickly, not with any sudden moves, but with a quiet rage that seemed to seethe from him. The air between the two men was filled wi
th intensity. Harden’s non-action was more terrifying than if he’d drawn his gun and started shooting the place to bits. Williams tried to smile but failed. He knew he’d pushed too far.

  Marla moved over to her partner and broke the spell. He glanced down at her. Very quietly, Marla said, “There’s another way.” At first Harden didn’t understand. Then Marla tapped her jacket pocket and he took her meaning.

  Marla turned abruptly. “Mr. Williams, would you mind if we searched the premises?”

  Williams sat forward suddenly, knocking the girl away who was manicuring his hand. He cried out in pain and shook his hand. Apparently the girl had pricked his fingernail when he came forward. He gave the girl a quick glance and said, “Bitch!” The girl held her arm up defensively, expecting a slap from him, but none came. Williams looked back to Marla. “Yeah, I would mind you searching.” Then, he relaxed as though coming to a revelation. “Besides, you can’t. You ain’t got no warrant,” he said, his smile reappearing.

  “Actually…we do,” Marla said, pulling a slip of paper from her jacket.

  A blank look came over Williams.

  Now it was Marla’s turn to smile.

  Suddenly, Williams leapt over the coffee table and darted through the door. He had moved so quickly, Marla and Harden didn’t have time to react. Marla lurched forward, trying to grab his leg, but he was fast, damn fast. The door slammed behind him and they heard a deadbolt engage. They were locked inside.

  James moved over and tried to push the door open, pressing his full weight against the dense barrier. It wouldn’t budge.

  Downstairs, they could hear shouting, then someone climbing the stairs.

  The two women cowered on the sofa.

  Harden stepped away from the door and rocked back on his left foot, driving his right into the lock. A large crack formed along the edge where the door met the jamb, but remained intact. Harden kicked it again. The door swung wide, crashing into the outside wall.

  James glanced at Marla and drew his Smith & Wesson 9 millimeter, then moved to the door and peered around the corner. Gunfire erupted from the top of the stairs. Bits of the doorjamb were blown away from the deadly barrage. James barely managed to duck back inside.

  The two women were behind the sofa now. Marla heard them whimpering from their hiding place.

  Then the lights went out.

  Marla and Harden huddled close together just inside the door. With the blinds drawn the room was cast in a funereal light.

  Marla couldn’t believe how quickly the situation had deteriorated; being shot at was definitely not part of the plan. Somewhere inside the building was damning evidence against Williams, which he was probably destroying while they were pinned down by his bodyguard. They had to move—and fast.

  James moved to the threshold again. He glanced at Marla and gave her a silent signal of his intentions. She nodded and adjusted the grip on her weapon.

  Just inside the doorway was a potted rubber tree. James grabbed the plant by the base and threw it into the hall. The tree struck the far wall with a crash. Immediately, another burst of gunfire sallied from the stairs directed at the sound. When it subsided, James rolled through the doorway and fired three quick shots at the end of the hall.

  A gasp came from the darkness, then a loud clatter, followed by another—then another—as their assailant toppled down the stairs. Then silence.

  James wasted no time, moving through the gloomy hallway with catlike quickness, Marla close behind. When they reached the head of the stairs they paused, peering at the downstairs foyer, searching for any kind of movement. Certain that no one awaited them, they slowly descended, cringing at every creak the stairs made. In the darkness the stair’s groans might as well have been cannon fire.

  At the base of the stairs, they found Williams’ bodyguard lying in a pool of blood, his head turned at an impossible angle. Williams, however, had disappeared.

  The house was preternaturally silent.

  Marla nodded toward the archway to the right of the stairs. James moved toward the rear of the house by way of the corridor beside the stairs. After years as partners, they knew, without speaking, the other’s intentions.

  The room Marla entered was awash in a sea of garbage. She waded through it trying to remain silent, but the trash announced her every step with a crunch-crinkle-crunch. The windows had been boarded up, casting the room in a gummy, gray light that seemed to arrest her movements.

  Marla’s heart thundered in her chest, filling her ears with its vibration. She attempted to calm herself. The sound of her pulse was impeding her hearing. If she couldn’t hear Williams approaching, she was dead. Stopping, she drew deep, cleansing breaths, bringing her heartbeat to a normal level. That done, she continued toward the archway that led to the back of the house.

  On the other side of the archway was a small kitchen. She peered around the corner, looking for any signs of movement. The kitchen was bordered in white cabinets that were yellowed from years of exposure to grease and smoke. An ancient gas range sat beside an even older refrigerator with a pull-lock handle. The sunflower pattern on the linoleum was almost completely worn through.

  Nothing moved. The kitchen was empty.

  Marla stepped lightly into the room. In the back corner, a door stood slightly ajar. Something clattered on the other side of the door.

  Marla froze.

  She listened, trying to hear even the smallest noise. Another sound came from the room, this time a barely audible curse. Someone was in there.

  Keeping her gun trained on the door, she moved quietly past the stove, then the refrigerator, praying no one was on the other side of the icebox.

  The door swung inward which allowed Marla to peer through the crack on the side where the hinges were. Inside, rifling through a stack of boxes, was Williams. Apparently the evidence the police lacked was within this room.

  Williams faced away from the door. He was so engaged in his search that he didn’t notice the door swing open. Marla stepped in and brought her gun to bear on him.

  “Freeze,” said Marla.

  Williams went rigid and held his hands up.

  “Turn around,” Marla ordered, “slowly.”

  The man pivoted around and faced her, an irresolute look on his face. His look changed to one of arrogance and he dropped his hands.

  “Get your hands up!” Marla demanded.

  “What you gonna do, bitch, shoot me?” he said, taking a step forward.

  “Don’t move!” said Marla, clicking the hammer on her weapon.

  Williams stalked closer, an evil grin creasing his face.

  “I’ve seen bitches like you before. All confident and shit until it comes down to the nitty gritty. You ain’t gonna shoot.”

  Marla involuntarily took a step back, then stopped. She couldn’t believe how confident he was even when faced with death. He moved closer, all apprehension gone.

  “You don’t know me. Not at all,” she said, icily.

  Williams froze, understanding registering on his face. Maybe it was the tone of Marla’s voice or the wintry stare she gave him, but he suddenly knew her intentions and still he chose to ignore it.

  He smiled again and started to step forward.

  Marla fired. The loud report sounding like cannon fire in the small confines of the room.

  Williams was thrown back into the stack of boxes, a ragged wound in his shoulder. After the initial shock, he grasped his shoulder, then glared at Marla.

  “You bitch. You shot me,” he shouted, then ran at Marla, howling like a madman.

  She managed to hit twice before he leapt atop her. They fell to the floor and wrestled for control of the gun. Marla jabbed him in his wounded shoulder, but it only seemed to make him angrier. He punched her in her face, stunning her. Then his hands were around her throat, cutting off her air supply. Everything got fuzzy. Her vision swam out of focus. Marla was sure she was going to die.

  Suddenly, three loud cracks filled the air. The pressure
on her throat released and her vision cleared. When she could make out her surroundings, she found James standing over her. He was asking her something, but she couldn’t make it out.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Are you hit?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  James helped her to her feet. She glanced down and saw Williams lying on the floor, blooding pouring from a gunshot that had removed the back of his skull.

  Marla sat at the kitchen table while James called in forensics. When she assured him she was all right, they searched the small storage room. Inside a Reebok shoebox, they discovered a stack of Polaroids, all of dead women, nine altogether. Williams had been a busy man. In that one box was the solution for nine murders over a five-year period. Along with the photographs were small mementos; an identification bracelet, earrings, a monogrammed stickpin and other trinkets. The most grisly being a withered finger that still had a ring on it.

  Williams was an aberration, a black serial killer. The FBI would probably have given anything to study such a unique find.

  Captain Greaves, their commanding officer, sent word by the forensics team for Marla and James to take the rest of the day off. They gave their statements to one of the attending officers and left.

  They drove in silence, both of them physically and mentally drained. Marla even kept the car below the posted speed limit.

  She pulled the car in front of James’ apartment building and he got out. As he headed toward the entrance, Marla called to him.

  “Jamie.”

  James stopped and glanced at her.

  Marla nodded.

  He stared at her for a second, then said, “Anytime.”

  James turned back to the building and continued on. Marla watched him for a second, then pulled away.

  A blood red sun sank on the horizon, its crimson beams splayed across the cobbled surface of River Street. A sudden drop off marked the end of the venerable road, giving way to its constant companion—the Savannah River. Millions of gallons of water rushed by as the strong ocean currents of the Atlantic assimilated the river into its collective. Old Savannah never minded. It would bide its time, as it had done for untold centuries, knowing that in twelve hours the sea would inevitably have to give back what it had taken.