He couldn’t afford to eat out; couldn’t afford to buy nice things, or even the necessary things. He worked, bought diapers, bought baby food and the bare necessities, then worked some more as the cycle repeated over and over again.
He didn’t get to sleep because for many months, he’d be awakened every few hours to feed the crying shit factory.
How is a man supposed to care for a newborn baby after a long day of work, throughout all hours of the night, and be expected to get up the next morning and work all day again? Over and over again, the cycle continued.
Except one day, the cycle ended brutally.
The man came home from work to a pissed-off wife and screaming child. Did it need milk, a clean diaper, affection, or sleep? Or a combination of those things? Or none of those things? Was it just pissed off for no reason, just trying to ruin his life?
He didn’t ask for this.
He went to the other end of the house to the master of two bedrooms, and into his closet. The top shelf held the only solution to his problem: a 12-gauge shotgun that hadn’t been cleaned or polished in a long time.
He held the pump release trigger and cocked it back to open the slot inside the barrel. He loaded it with the only ammunition he had left: one No. 6 pellet-filled shell, and then cocked the pump back forward. The safety was on, so he clicked it off.
Then, without thinking even for a moment - because if he had thought about it, he would have stopped - he put the barrel directly under his chin, aiming upwards, and pushed the trigger down with his index finger.
The shotgun pellets tore through both ends of his skull, shattering it into bits, and blowing it out the top of his head, along with most of his brain and all the blood that it was bathing in. Blood, bone, and brain caked the ceiling and walls and made for a gruesome, unforgettable scene. The blood poured out from the holes in his head, soaking deeply into the carpet and pooling out in all directions. Brain matter that had stuck loosely to the ceiling fell back to the floor, and blood trickled dramatically down the walls and dripped slowly from the ceiling, spattering back onto the carpet.
He left the world in cowardice, leaving behind a widow with no means of supporting herself or her baby.
This would set in motion a series of events that would transform a perfectly normal baby into a monster by the name of Alexander Hart.
---
1998
Following the death of her husband, Jackie Hart remained single and focused on the care of her son. For years, she juggled two jobs and the care for Alexander, all in the name of providing him with all of his needs, and the occasional desire. Occasionally, she would have to miss a meal, but that was okay as long as Alexander never did. She didn’t have much to wear other than several-year-old clothes that were mostly worn in, but that was okay as long as Alexander had enough clothes to keep up with his growing body.
This stretch of time was the longest four - nearly five - years of Jackie’s life. Although in the winter of 1998, she finally remarried.
Her new husband was one of status and wealth. He’d made a name for himself in the media years prior, mostly because of his extreme political beliefs, and had since started a massively successful online media outlet. It was updated daily with breaking news and political opinion columns, and all of his social media accounts had gone viral, amassing a huge following in the South. Since its inception, he had turned a simple blog into an online media giant, and his face had become one of the most recognizable in Texas.
His name was Tom Baker, and he was responsible for turning Alexander Hart into a monster.
Jackie took his last name, leaving Alexander as the last remaining Hart in that line. Alexander’s late father was an only child, and both of his parents were only-children - both dead as well.
They married in the winter, just a few weeks after Alexander’s fifth birthday. His fifth birthday was his last happy one and, sadly, he doesn’t even remember that one. No, instead, his first memories are ones of misery. Despair, misery, anguish, and unhappiness are all words that cannot fully encapsulate just how dreadful Alexander’s childhood was; it is, however, perhaps the only thing that can explain why he became who he became.
---
2004
Tom Baker wasted absolutely no time in ruining Alexander’s life behind closed doors. Jackie was oblivious to the real Tom through the entirety of their marriage, until her death. Her life was a carefree one spent inside Tom’s fourteen thousand square foot colonial mansion, free of work and free of responsibility. There was not a day that she did not wake up with a smile and return to sleep with one, thanks to the complete gentleman that was her husband.
Flower surprises were nothing out of the norm, and nights out on the town were at very least a weekly routine. She was spoiled and happy, unlike ever before, and unlike she had ever imagined. But little did she know the special kind of hell her son was living in the shadows.
The house was just large enough to keep the sounds of shouting out of earshot from Jackie, and Alexander spent just enough time in the corners of the home and in his room to hide the marks from her.
For years, ever since they moved in with Tom, Alexander had been forced to wear long sleeve shirts, jeans, and long-legged underwear, in order to strategically hide the evidence of abuse from his mother. Tom’s idea, of course, but Alexander had the proper motivation.
Tom’s abuse got in early. At the susceptible age of five, Alexander was primed for devastating emotional trauma that he would carry for the rest of his life, changing what could have been. A life that could have been normal, or even great, because of his high level of intelligence, was ruined from the beginning.
“Quit your bitching and take off your pants.”
That was a common phrase around the house.
“Shut the fuck up. Your mother won’t hear you.”
That one was said more so early on in Alexander’s life, and less later on.
“If you ever tell anybody anything, you and your mother are both fucking dead. Understand?”
This one set the ground rules immediately, and Alexander was frequently reminded of it. Alexander never told anybody, not even after his mother died.
“Don’t make me light a cigar. Or would you prefer the stove this time?”
his was his most dreaded punishment. If he didn’t cooperate, or if he fought, or if he made noise, he would get a burn. Occasionally he’d get pinched aggressively until blood drew, or spanked on the inside of his thigh, but by far the worst was when he burned. There were permanent burn scars all over his biceps and shoulders and one on his hand from the stove. Tom made him keep his hand wrapped up, and forged a story about an accident they had while he lovingly tried to teach him how to cook. Of course, Jackie laughed it off and marveled at the sweet story of father-son bonding. Little did she know.
“You’re a sweet boy, Alex. You just need to learn to behave and follow directions.”
Alex, Alex, Alex.
“Drop your pants, Alex. You know the drill, Alex.”
Alex, Alex, Alex.
“You really are a beautiful child, Alex.”
Alex, Alex, Alex.
“I swear to god, Alex. If you ruin my life, I’ll fucking end yours.”
Alex. Alex. Alex.
Only Tom called him Alex. To everyone else, he was Alexander. To his perfect angel of a mother, he was Alexander. To the housekeeper, he was Alexander. To the schoolteachers and church staff, he was Alexander. But Tom called him Alex.
That’s just it; Tom called him Alex.
TWO
THURSDAY, JANUARY 21ST
Marco was in his office by 7:59 a.m. Gene hadn’t showed up yet, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.
An hour had gone by, and Gene still hadn’t showed up. Nine a.m. and no sign of him.
“Marco! Gene! Jeff! Homicide reported!”
The Lieutenant was shouting, almost excitedly, as if there wasn’t already enough homicide to go around.
“Get o
ut here!”
Marco left his chair, his various case files strewn over his desk as he caught up on other work, waiting for Gene’s directive in the Edmund case. He entered the main floor of the Homicide department of the building at the same time as Jeff, but still no Gene.
“Hey, this is fresh. Just got the call in. Marco, I need you and Gene to lead, because - wait, where’s Gene?”
“I’m not sure, Lieutenant. I’m sure he’s on his way. Old guy probably slept in a bit.” Marco laughed it off, as did a few other uniforms that were sitting around their desks listening in. By this point, Gene had a bit of a reputation for not giving a shit.
“Okay, whatever. I’ll have him meet you there, then. This might have something to do with the case the two of you are working. Nine a.m. on the dot, we got a call from the desk of Terry Edmund. His secretary came in and found him on the ground, floor is covered in blood apparently. She was terrified, crying, didn’t give any other details, so I need y’all to go figure out what you can figure out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Weird though, right? Guy is helping the cops catch the bad guy; gives the cops an ID on a suspect; a warrant is issued for the suspect’s home, and then later that night or the next morning, guy gets killed in his office. Go check it out, right now.”
Marco didn’t wait for anything else, and immediately grabbed his bag from his office and left. As he was heading out into the main hallway that connects with the side doors for Homicide, in the distance he heard the Lieutenant say, “Jeff, go with him in case Gene doesn’t show up.”
Then, seconds later, Jeff was close behind.
“Mind if I ride with you, hotshot?” Jeff asked.
“No problem with me.”
---
They arrived at the tower that Terry’s office resided in, but were beat by other squad cars. Their lights were flashing, unaccompanied by a siren, and they were parked still by the curb right in front of the main doors. Marco couldn’t help but think he was fortunate to park here instead of across the street in the parking garage.
They were stepped out and greeted by patrol officers. Patrol wasn’t allowed to head up to the crime scene until Homicide arrived, and the forensics team was still en route.
“Detectives, I’m Officer Peters. I was the first responder. We’re going up to the thirtieth floor.”
“Hi, I’m Detective Moretti.”
He stuck out his hand for a shake and was met with a firm grasp as they walked through the doors of the bustling lobby. Everything seemed perfectly normal down here, and to anyone who doesn’t work on the thirtieth floor, it would seem just like any other day. Little did they know.
Marco followed the Officer, allowing him to feel important even though he already knew exactly where he’d be going, and Jeff followed passively in the back. The entire way up the elevator, Officer Peters went on about the call and how the secretary found him this morning when she arrived. This information wasn’t important to Marco, because Marco already knew who killed him. Or, at least, he knew who was responsible. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
The Edmund & Hart office on the thirtieth floor was filled with a sort of vacant chaos. It appeared as most of the employees had gone home, either out of genuine grief or by just using the murder as an excuse for a free day off. However, the few employees that remained were sitting and standing, huddled up near reception, talking together. Terry’s secretary was recounting her experience and crying almost uncontrollably while receiving comforting pats and hugs from the coworkers that surrounded her.
Marco stopped Officer Peters from leading any further and quickly addressed the group before proceeding.
“Excuse me, everyone?” He waited for them to silence and turn their attention towards him, but when they didn’t, he repeated, “Excuse me.” He said it with a slight bit of gruff and two notches louder.
They all turned to face him. Silent.
“My name is Detective Marco Moretti, and this is my associate, Detective Jeff Caldwell. I understand this may be a difficult or even traumatic time, but I must ask you all to remain here until Jeff and I have had a chance to speak with each one of you. Thank you.”
None of them tried to respond or ask any questions and, instead, they reformed their huddle and continued talking amongst themselves.
Officer Peters continued to lead the two of them into the back office, where Marco had already visited twice.
Gene better hurry up, he thought.
“Here you are, Detectives,” Officer Peters said as they walked through the doorway into Terry’s office. “This is - or was, I suppose - Mr. Edmund’s office. Have a look around; do your thing. I’ll be standing back out here if you need me.” He exited the room through its open door and stood just outside it, within earshot.
Constantly-running filters and air conditioning throughout the rest of the office filtered out most of the stench, but Marco and Jeff were hit with it as soon as they walked in. It was putrid, to say the least, and the air almost felt heavier now than it did outside.
The stench was caused by a number of things: first, Terry Edmund’s bowels had released, and browned his pants in the rear. It was something Marco wasn’t used to seeing, but it was part of a murder scene. Second, when dying, the muscle that controls the release of urine relaxes, and the floodgates open. His pants caught the majority of it, but his bladder must have been near capacity, because some leaked out and mixed in with the pool of blood around his waist. Third, the blood itself. After mere minutes, the pool of blood begins the gelatinization process. First it thickens slightly and becomes viscid and sticky, like a syrup. Minutes later, the entire pool transforms into a type of jelly and thickens from the outside, in. It blackens slightly over time, and more and more it less resembles blood. The whole mass at the end of the congealing process is nearly black and unrecognizable, but the pungent stink of iron only thickens.
The feces, urine, and blood mixed together to form a sickening and repulsive concoction that swirled together in the air and stewed overnight, creating possibly the vilest stench that Marco had ever, or will ever have to endure.
Jeff stepped back out, fearing he may vomit as he huddled up to the closest trash can, but nothing came of it. Marco, however, was a little tougher, and instead just closed his nose as he walked around the desk to get a better view of the body.
Surely enough, that was him. His skin was purple-white, and his entire body was stiff, including his opened eyelids. They weren’t open completely - not in shock. They were only halfway open, as if he was trying to wake himself from his eternal slumber.
Marco drew latex gloves from his pocket and put them on, so that he could touch things without tampering with possible evidence. He decided not to touch the body; he’d just leave that to the forensic guys. Instead, Marco focused on Terry’s desk.
He pawed around through the drawers, looking for anything that might point to who he already knew was responsible. Any mistake, any hiccup; anything. The drawers were mostly filled with work-related papers and were therefore useless to him.
Marco pressed down the spacebar on Terry’s computer to awaken it, and was greeted with a home screen. To his delight, there was no password. Grazie a Dio, he thought. He was sick of road blocks. He inspected the computer for anything he could find. He looked through the onboard hard drive for connections to Alexander Hart. But alas, there was nothing. Most files are kept on the cloud these days, especially by people as young and technologically advanced as Terry was. All the files saved to the hard drive were work-related files and different work-related software. Nothing of importance.
Marco walked through the entire stretch of the room with Jeff, who had finally overcome his fear of bad smells, but they found nothing of importance. There was no struggle. Nothing. It looked as if a guy came in, put three holes in him without any sort of a fight, and left immediately without touching anything.
“I guess we wait for forensics to show up?”.
Jeff shrugged
at the question, not providing any real leadership.
Is Gene ever going to show up? he thought.
About the time, the elevator chimed from in front of the reception desk, so Marco and Jeff walked that way to greet the team.
“Hey, guys. Might wanna cover your noses. It’s pretty bad,” Jeff warned them. But it’s not like they had never been to a crime scene and smelled a dead body that had been left out overnight. It was something that someone could never get used to, until they just did.
Inside the room, the two forensic investigators examined the body and the entire area around it.
Lab Geek 1 immediately noted, “Cause of death is a fatal gunshot wound to the head.” After further examination, he continued, “It appears there are three gunshot wounds, but the initial blow was to his temple. This one probably killed him instantly, but the shooter put two more in the back of his head to make sure. Notice how these two gunshots are right next to each other, almost touching. These were fired in quick succession,” he said pointing at the two holes in the back. “They also indicate a different trajectory. They were fired from higher up, probably while our victim was already lying on the ground.”
“Yeah, and look at blood spatter on the wall. The shot at his temple had to be the initial shot, because the blood spatters out widely, covering the wall and even parts of the desk and window,” Lab Geek 2 added. “It was fired from point-blank range. The barrel of the gun was likely touched to his head, execution-style.”
Marco stepped forward and around the desk, following the story.
“Okay, so what you’re saying is Mr. Edmund sat here in his chair. Then, shooter comes in and puts a gun to his temple and shoots. This kills him and knocks him out of the chair onto his stomach and, for safe measure, the shooter puts two more in the back of his head.”
“It adds up that way.” Lab Geeks 1 and 2 looked to each other and agreed in unison.
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