Killing Room

by Shawn Raiford

  Mitch left while Henry hung back, searching under the bed. He found a small shoe box containing hard copies of a couple of credit card bills, but nothing more.

  No doubt Mitch already did, but Henry wanted to look at the bathroom himself. Nothing out of the ordinary. Pink toothbrush and a tube of Colgate toothpaste on the sink. A box of Midol Complete, a bottle of aspirin, and a bottle of Robitussin in the medicine cabinet. Under the sink, she kept her lady pads, two cans of Lysol, and a few unused candles.

  Behind the shower curtain Caitlyn had two kinds of shampoo, conditioner, four bottles of body wash—and a exfoliating bath sponge. The toilet seat was down, which told him a man hadn't been in here recently.

  Then he joined Mitch in the kitchen. "Have you looked in the drawers, for knives?”

  Opening the dishwasher, Mitch said, "No, not yet. It is on my to-do list. No knives in here. Check it out.”

  Killers have been known to simply put a knife, the murder weapon, in the dishwasher. Turn it on and leave. Evidence is then (most of the time) washed away. Or he'll stay and put the dishes up. But not this time. It looked like she hadn't used her dishwasher to wash dishes. There were some sweaters. Probably not enough room in her closet.

  Henry opened a drawer, but only found the place mats for the dinner table. Books of matches from a couple of bars. If need be, they would go to those bars to ask about Caitlyn.

  Along with other utensils, Mitch found a butcher knife in the first drawer he opened. His eyes brightened and he turned to the M.E. general direction, and held it up. "Could this be the murder weapon?”

  With a furrowed brow and pen in hand, she glanced up from her clipboard. "Yes, it could be."

  After wiping away the blood, it was not unheard of a killer placing the murder weapon back in the drawer.

  Other knives were found. As procedure dictated—when a knife was suspect—the crime scene unit techs would test all knives found here.

  Mitch continued searching in the pantry. And found the usual foodstuffs. Henry opened up all the cabinets; he found dishes and standard glassware: coffee mugs, cups, and wine glasses.

  A magnet pinned a lovely picture of Caitlyn holding a toddler girl on the fridge. Mitch pointed at it. "Kind of looks like the baby in the picture from the shoebox."

  "Yeah."

  Henry opened the fridge, and he didn't see much as in food, which reaffirmed that she was single. The trash had a couple of take-out containers, Chinese and pizza. "She ate a lot of take-out."

  Henry put his hands on his hips. "Not big on cooking. The set of knives could've been a present from her mother or aunt who wanted her to learn how to cook. You know, telling her to learn how before she got a man."

  "Yeah, mothers can be hard on their daughters when it comes to stuff like that. I think my ex is teaching Pamela to cook just so she can land a rich man when she's older."

  Pamela was a good kid; Terry—his ex—was gold digger. Or that was how Mitch described her.

  Henry exhaled. "So, what do we know?"

  "No wedding ring. There are a few pictures of her in the apartment. The pictures in the shoeboxes appear to be family and fridge has no food,” Mitch replied.

  Neither liked doing it, but one of them would check her social media—see what she has said online. Might give them some insight if she was dating. Henry nodded, and said, “So she's single and might be dating?”

  "Yeah, if social media doesn't tell us one of her girlfriends might know if she was dating," Mitch said. Statistics stated that women were most likely killed by men that they knew.

  Saving the best for last, he scanned the room; he didn’t see it anywhere—he could've sworn it was already bagged. "Where the hell's her cell phone?"

  Chapter Three

  Keeping an eye on her

  THE TIME ON THE car radio's LCD told Edward he’d been waiting for an hour.

  Long ago, he learned to be patient. Patience is a virtue, he'd been told.

  Edward knew which one he wanted. He'd been keeping an eye on her for a few days, and felt like it was time.

  Young and strong, two important traits he liked. The last two screamers, Asian and black, on his table had been weak and did not last long. The Asian screamer's heart gave out, a heart attack. The black screamer gave up too soon, drifting off to wherever they go when the pain gets to be too much.

  They were weak; he loathed weakness.

  The two standing on the sidewalk did not meet his criteria: too old. All used up. No longer good. Past expiration.

  Feeling antsy, he gripped the steering wheel. Another few minutes past before it arrived. A silver Mercedes sedan pulled up a block behind him—its headlights blinked off.

  Edward stared steadily into his rearview mirror until he saw the passenger door open. There she is!

  With the importance of a movie star—which she would be soon enough—she exited the Mercedes.

  Young women made the best screamers. Stubborn. Older ones gave up too soon.

  After she closed her door, she walked over to the driver's side window and stuck her head in; she gave the driver of the Mercedes a good-night-and-come-back-soon kiss.

  Ss the Mercedes drove off, she waved.

  Next, she walked over to join two older women who stood on the sidewalk one black, and rail thin, the other white and chubby. Both appeared to be old, used up, and most likely drug users. Not strong. Edward preferred young women with clear heads. Clear heads meant more hope.

  Race nor looks mattered to Edward or his clients. On average, older women tended to be smarter, quicker to figure out their fate, and gave up too soon. Young ones had more hope and stamina because they could not comprehend dying.

  This young one, standing with the other two old whores, was brown. Probably Hispanic or mixed race. When she stepped under the light, he guessed her age to be around nineteen or twenty. Perfect, he thought.

  Edward started his car, pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn in the intersection. He parked on the opposite curb—leaving the engine running—he flashed the headlights to grab her attention. All three turned, smiled, and started to walk over to him.

  When they got close enough, he lowered his window. "I want to talk to the brown one. She's pretty," Edward said out the window.

  Rolling her eyes, the skinny black one showed him the palm of her right hand. "Thkkt! Whatever motherfucker!" she said, walking off. The white one flipped him off and joined her black friend on the corner.

  When he first started searching for screamers, he wasn’t that good at it. Force was not a good way to get them into his car; some reacted quickly and got away. Patience and the use of nice words helped. Even street whores liked nice men.

  She glanced back at her friends, chortling. Turned back to him, she waved and said, "Hi, my name's Crystal. How are you, handsome?"

  Careful not to show his teeth when he smiled at her; his cousin told him he had bad teeth and might scare them. Scary was the word to describe, he knew. The word handsome did not describe Edward at all. He didn’t care; he had money. All hookers want is money. ”I’m good."

  "Good to hear, handsome."

  He reached around and grabbed his wallet from his back pocket. He pulled out a few bills, picked one out: gave her fifty-dollars. “Please walk around the block. I'll meet you on the other side. I am going to spend a lot of money with you tonight." He flashed her the bills still in his hand.

  The smile on Crystal's face got even bigger. "Alright, handsome!" She started walking down the street and turned left at the corner.

  He crumpled up one of the bills in a hand, and drove thirty feet past her. Gently pressing down on the brake, the car slowed, coming to a complete stop. Edward threw it out the window.

  She calmly walked over, picked the wad up, and unfolded it. Upon recognizing the hundred-dollar bill, she smiled. Tough to see Edward through the window's dark tint. Rolling the window down a few inches, he pointed at her. "Finders-keepers! I'll go around the block and wait for you on t
he other side."

  Crystal walked, smiling as she put the money into her wallet-sized purse. All women wanted money, especially money from men. It was in their nature; his father taught him that.

  When he first arrived to their corer, he made his way around the block a couple of times, but did not see anything to cause him concern. But once more would not hurt to see if an opportunistic cop, who might be working with Crystal, waited in the dark to bust him. All the vehicles within view appeared empty and had been there since he arrived.

  As he made the fourth consecutive left turn onto the street where he'd left her, he observed two guys walk up to Crystal. They did not look like cops. One of them might be her pimp, asking her why she was wasting time here and not working her corner with the other whores.

  Next thing he witnessed was one of them snatching her purse. And the other one held her back. He parked on the side of the street. "Who the hell are these guys?" Edward mumbled to himself. They must have emerged from the alley on the other side of the street.

  Driving off and leaving her to fend for herself was his first impulse. He could go back and pick up the black whore, but Edward realized Crystal did not like these two guys.

  She yanked her purse back. "Get out of here you fucking losers!"

  Then one of the guys slapped her, but she didn't fall. Stood her ground. It meant strength. Which was good.

  "Who the fuck are you to call me a loser, you fucking whore!" the slapper yelled.

  These guys were kind of small. The other guy moved to grab her purse back. He finally took it from her.

  When he exited the car, he didn't bother closing the door. "You need to leave now, before I get mad."

  The guy who slapped Crystal spoke first, puffing his chest out like a sickly rooster. "Who the fuck are you?"

  Edward pointed at her. "I'm Crystal's friend, and I don't like you hitting her." First come, first serve. Crystal belonged to him.

  The second guy, bigger than the slapper, spoke. "Well, she called us losers, so we got to put her in her fucking place, man!"

  Edward watched as the money that he just gave Crystal go into the second guy's pocket. "You're going to put that money back into her purse and then you two are going to go back where you just came from."

  One of them stepped forward. He pointed and shouted, "Fuck you, man! You better be careful how you talk to us, we'll fuck you up!"

  By just looking at them, he could tell they were junkies. Normally, this would be a waste of time, but these two had his money. Besides, he felt like hurting them. "She and I are leaving." Edward motioned to her to enter his car.

  Crystal took a step towards his car, but the first guy blocked her way. "She needs to apologize for calling us losers, then she can go."

  Without signaling, Edward rushed them. He reached the slapper in four strides, tackling him like a practice dummy on a football field. Both landed hard on the cement.

  The second guy moved sluggishly, attempting to kick Edward. But he missed, almost falling.

  Edward did not consider himself much of a fighter; he never had to be. Every threat that he came across had been deterred by his size. Plus, his bulk did not allow him to move fast. Most MMA fighters could take him, but these two guys made him look like a heavyweight prize fighter.

  Edward got to his feet, and noted the slapper was not breathing, but it didn't concern him. Just knocked the wind out of him.

  The second guy checked on his friend. "Ricky? Get up, man!"

  Ricky writhed, gasping for air.

  Edward chuckled. "Looks like he can't breathe."

  In a blind rage, Ricky's buddy charged him. He launched a couple blows, which only bounced off of Edward's thickly-muscled chest.

  Edward sent out an upper cut.

  CRACK!

  It connected, raising Ricky's friend a few inches off the ground. His jaw broke, Edward thought. Broken Jaw!

  Momentarily, he thought she ran off. But she hadn't. She stood next to his car. Once he grabbed her purse and the money from Broken Jaw's pocket, he said, "Get in my car!"

  Without any fuss, she entered his car.

  Then he got in. "Hello, Crystal, how are you.”

  "Hello back at you, handsome hero! I'm fine. Thank you for helping me with those losers," she said.

  "You are welcome. My name is Edward." He stuck out a thick hand.

  She accepted it and shook it.

  "Nice to meet you, Edward. Are you lonely? You want company tonight?" Upon releasing his hand, she placed it on his thigh.

  Mouth watering, Edward looked her up and down again. She had long dark hair, tall heels, and a dark red mini skirt showed her figure. Which did nothing for him. Only her potential at screaming excited him. Being young and strong should make her good screamer for his movie.

  His cousin told him that his size would intimidate most women, so he always moved slowly and spoke softly. "Yes, I am a little lonely. Can you help me with that?"

  She didn't stop smiling. "Oh, yes, Edward. I believe I can."

  "Then, let's go. I have a place we could go. It's not far from here."

  "Okay, but I need to know what you want me to do. We need to talk about money. How much are you willing to spend?"

  Edward reached inside his wallet again. Pulling out a handful of bills, he handed the wad of money over to her. "There's a thousand dollars. That should cover what I want plus any extras. Right?" Later when he had her strapped to his table, he would get the money back from her.

  Within two seconds, the wad of money was in her purse. "Yes, you're right."

  Her hand ran along the inseam of his pants, heading towards his crotch. "Edward, you can take me anywhere you want. You just bought me for the rest of the night." She kissed his right earlobe. "I'm going to make you a very happy man.”

  “No doubt,” he said, and pulled out onto the street, making his way to the highway. Thirty-minutes later Edward had Crystal naked and strapped to his table.

  Chapter Four

  What I saw horrified me

  OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT OF apartment 3F, two doors down from their victim, Mitch knelt down, looking at the bottom of the door. "The light is on inside. The tenant is awake."

  Before they headed to 3B to talk to the woman who found Caitlyn, they wanted to talk to a neighbor first.

  Henry's stomach growled. Mitch glanced at him, but before he could say something smart ass the door opened.

  Toned and tanned, a white guy stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a white muscle shirt, holding a glass of what looked like wine. Red. "Oh." He paused, frowning. "Hello?"

  He was expecting someone. Perhaps, a booty call?

  "Sir, sorry to bother you at this hour. My name is Investigator Mason, and this is my partner Investigator Creed."

  The tenant held the glass with both hands. "Can I see some badges?"

  Henry pulled out his badge and showed it to him. Mitch did the same. The tenant perused each badge as if they were newly discovered gems. "Sorry about that, just wanted to make sure you guys were who you say you are. I’m Dennis.”

  "No problem, Dennis.” Henry placed his badge back in his jacket inside pocket. "There's been a murder and we are going around to the tenants to see if they know something."

  "Oh my, a murder?" Dennis

  After Mitch asked if they could come inside, Dennis let them in.

  They shouldered their way into 3F and immediately Henry heard light music.

  Dennis waved them towards a couch. "Please have a seat gentlemen."

  Before doing so, Henry scanned the apartment. Different from Caitlyn's, it was nicer and a tad bigger. Two red leather chairs sat at both ends of a red couch, with a dark wood coffee table in the middle. A huge painting of a meadow hung on the wall behind the couch. "That's nice, you paint it?"

  Dennis scoffed. "No, I found that in a garage sale last year."

  Nodding, Henry smiled and moved to the chair next to the couch. He then spotted a bottle of red wine with an extra win
e glass on the coffee table.

  Dennis was expecting company.

  They all sat down, Mitch joining Dennis on the couch and

  "So, someone was killed?"

  “Yes, sir," Mitch said. “Dennis can I get your last name for my notes.”

  "Sure, my last name is Sanderson.”

  Mitch glanced up from his notepad. "Mr. Sanderson—"

  "Please call me Dennis, my overbearing father is Mr. Sanderson." He took a drink of his wine.

  "Alright, Dennis, your neighbor in 5F, Caitlyn Meadows was murdered a few hours ago," Mitch said.

  "What?" Dennis asked, cutting his eyes at Mitch. "Caitlyn?

  "Yes, she—"

  Dennis held up a hand. "Wait a minute! Are you serious? Caitlyn's dead?" he asked, his voice cracked.

  "Yes, sir, she was murdered," Mitch said.

  Dennis placed his wine glass on the coffee table. "Are you sure it's her? I just talked to her last night on the phone."

  "We are sure. It's Caitlyn."

  “Oh my God! I can’t believe this.” His lips trembled. Turning his head to the side, and setting his wine glass down, Dennis brought a hand up to his face. "Oh my God!"

  Henry stood up and walked to the kitchen, found some napkins and brought a couple to him.

  Dennis accepted them. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Mitch said, he placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Some killers had the ability to fake it, but Dennis did not appear to be faking in Henry's opinion.

  With elbows on his knees, Henry got a glimpse of a framed picture on the end table. In the picture, Dennis stood next to an elderly lady, both well dressed. Most likely his mother. Another framed picture, next to the other, this time of Dennis and a man. Both men were shirtless at a beach. They were smiling and hugging, faces pressed against the other. Henry suspected the man in the picture was his boy friend. Buddies and brothers didn’t take such pictures.