by G. O. Grason
A lanky waitress brought his drink and he watched as she gently slid a short note under the tray. He looked around before bringing the paper out and he found a message with a number on it.
The note read, Don't make eye contact, give me a call later tonight.
He was overcome with curiosity as he gulped his drink back, feeling it burn all the way down, followed by the warmth after the burn subsided. He stared at his empty glass as he thought of having another but thought better of it and picked up his newspaper and got out of the bar.
He got in his car and drove off, checking his rearview mirror every few minutes, to see if anyone was tailing him. The traffic light was red when he got to the next intersection, so he connected his phone to the car stereo during the wait. He took a turn to Davis Street where Brenda's parent's lived.
He parked his car a few blocks away from the building and walked down to the house, just to see if anyone was following him. He knocked on the door and someone answered him from within the house. He was allowed into the house because he lied that he was from the gas company. What he saw inside shocked him – a bed-ridden older man was fighting for his life in the middle of the room and his wife was tending to him. They appeared to be retirees with little funds or health care, for that matter. On the wall hung a picture of Brenda. Thompson thought she looked so sweet, so alive. They exchanged a nod and the older man kept his gaze. The man was obviously very ill and still devastated by the shock of Brenda's death.
“I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday,” Thompson stated, breaking the silence.
“I’m sorry no one picked up. I wasn’t around and Josephine can’t do much but tend to Richard," answered the woman who opened the door.
"It’s not a problem. It’s just, the more time we take, the less likely we are going to catch this guy. I'm Thompson, by the way.” He held out his hand. The lady introduced herself as Linda.
"Why are you here? We paid all our gas bills," Linda demanded.
“About that, I’m with the NYPD and I'm the detective in Brenda's case. I’m sorry for your loss.”
The lady looked at him with a quizzical look and let out a humph.
"You know Brenda had been dead for months now and we are all just trying to move on," she hissed.
"Yes, I'm well aware of that. I just need to ask a few questions about her, before she died," Thompson said.
"We have told everything we know to all the other detectives," she said. "I'm sorry to say, but I've got nothing to tell you. In fact, I’m a little sick and tired of answering all of your questions. Feels like you want me to do your job for you.”
At that moment, Josephine walked into the kitchen and told Thompson to get out.
"Get out of my house. I can't let him cause more harm to this family after what he did to Brenda and Richard," she yelled.
"Who is he?" Thompson queried but the women were ready to push him out, as no one was going to answer.
“No more questions!” Linda demanded. “Brenda and Richard were innocent people, then he showed up and ruined everything.”
He left willingly, after failed efforts to get his question answered and his inability to stop Brenda’s Mom – Josephine - from crying uncontrollably.
Thompson went back to his car and drove back to the motel. The receptionist gave him an anonymous letter, that was delivered after he went out. The content of the letter shocked him as he opened it. It's a warning from the perp.
"I've been watching all of your movements, and you need to stop the investigation! – Robert"
“Who delivered this?” Thompson asked.
“I don’t know, I found it in the mail box with your name on it,” answered the receptionist.
Thompson was anxious but also pleased that the killer had just confirmed his identity. They had just made his job a whole lot easier.
It was 5:45 in the evening when he made a call to the number slipped under his drink earlier in the day. The line was busy for a few attempts and then finally the call went through.
"Hello, you gave me this number earlier in the day. I'm Detective Brian Thompson.”
"Ya I remember you from earlier. I'm Jenny Rodriguez and I used to work with Brenda Clissen before she died," she added.
"Where can we meet?" Thompson asked.
"I don't think that will be safe for me. The eyes are always watching," Rodriguez replied.
"Okay, what do you have to share?" Thomson said
“I think Robert killed her," she said. She continued with how he –Robert- had moved in with Brenda, weeks after they met and it made her whole demeanor change. “No one knew where he came from and Brenda wouldn't talk about it with anyone. Even Mr. Clissen despised such an immature decision of letting this stranger move in with his daughter but what could the poor man do”?
She went on to talk about how Brenda would come into the workplace with a black eye or bruises around her wrists – which could only mean she was tied.
“She wouldn't talk to anyone about it. Robert would always buy her gifts and just dote on her publicly,” she explained. “But it was always after she came around with new bruises. It was so sad but because Brenda never said anything, there was nothing I could do.”
She went on to talk about how often Brenda admitted to being clumsy anytime she was asked about the bruises on her.
“Of course, that was a lie but, by then, it was too late.”
“Too late for what?” Thompson asked.
“She sent me a “please help me” message the night before her body was found in her room," she concluded. “I should have done something. Anything.
Thompson kept on writing as Rodriguez spoke.
"I wouldn't want you to mention my name in any of your official reports and I'm not safe out there. Plus, you saw what he did to Brenda’s father?” she said. "That happened to him after he spoke with the police and it was Robert.”
She quickly hung up the phone. Thompson’s efforts to reach Rodriguez again on the phone was futile. It didn’t matter. Thompson had gotten everything that he needed.
Detective Thompson worried about the vagueness of the information he obtained and certainly nothing to pinpoint the whereabouts of the perp.
He resolved to drive back to Manhattan the next morning since no one else would openly talk to him. He would work with the facts he had and continue to investigate the other case files, hoping to uncover some solid leads.
5
Two days after Jenny Rodriguez spoke with Detective Thompson, something horrific happened on Jackson Ave., on her way home from her afternoon shift. She had a feeling as though she was being watched but she couldn't see anybody. She moved quickly, periodically looking over her shoulder and eventually broke into a sprint, before ducking into an alley. Rodriguez thought it would never be safe to go home but it was also unsafe to be out here on the street. Her mind went back to the discussion she had with Detective Thompson. Perhaps, the call was bugged somehow and now she was at risk. She thought about how vulnerable she would be if somehow her name got leaked out that she was talking to the police.
From where she was hiding, she cautiously came out to check the busy street and realized it was just her imagination playing tricks on her. She started walking home when she began to think every single person on the way looked like Robert to her.
She got home and everything was silent, except for the breeze rustling softly through the trees. She noticed her neighbours lights were off, which was unusual for this time of night. She unlocked her apartment door and stepped into the darkness, fumbling to turn on the light switch. Then, she felt the cold steel of a knife blade on her neck. She wanted to scream for help but couldn’t, as the knife’s edge and her deepest fears being realized, prevented it. Moments later a striking blow came down on her head from behind, her body instantly crumpled as she fell to the floor.
She woke up with a hazy vision of who the intruder was, but she couldn't move her body. She was hog tied and naked, but she realized
she wasn’t gagged. She tried to scream but couldn't; the pain she felt in her neck was sharp like a nail had been driven through it, and the Ketamine she was injected with was coursing through her veins.
The intruder emerged and floods of memories flashed through her.
It's been months and somehow, he is still out here on the streets, she thought. The imminent horror to be inflicted on her, made her terrified but her body and soul were too numb to react.
She tried again to scream but drugs and the beating prevented it.
She could only mumble out, “Please don’t do this, I’ll do anything.”
The intruder laughed at her mockingly and said, “Say that again bitch. I didn’t quite catch that.”
Jenny started to open her mouth to speak, when without warning the full force of his foot came crashing down on her face, smashing her teeth and her nose.
“Don’t think for a minute, anyone is coming to save you,” he whispered into her ear as he half carried her outside. He stuffed her body as if it were a bag of garbage into the trunk of his car and she heard the slam of the lid above her, just as she blacked out.
Jenny fell in and out of consciousness. Her face was a swollen bloody mess. They drove for what must have been an hour, although difficult for her to tell due to state she was in, before the car skidded to a halt.
The trunk lid sprang open and he dragged her out of the trunk by her hair. She hit the ground with a thud and the unforgettable sound of bones breaking as her right femur shattered. She lay on the ground, peering through swollen eye lids, trying to make sense of what was happening. Everything was dark and eerie. The only light was the dim flickering bulb in front of a decrepit wooden cottage.
She was dragged by the hair to a place that looked like a wooden altar. She lay there on her side, unable to move. She was paralyzed and beyond pain, not only from the beating and the shock of the ordeal but from the drugs still in her system. Her hands and feet were untied one at a time and subsequently nailed to the wooden floor. The searing pain with each hammer blow was too much to bare or comprehend and Jenny blacked out again. She was left out there in the dark all night, spread eagle and naked on the ground.
By 8 a.m., she was in deep distress. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse was racing. She was barely alive.
The perpetrator stepped out of the shadows of the cottage, with a 12-inch knife. He was wearing elbow high rubber gloves and a rubber apron. He reminded her of a butcher in the market, her mother use to take her to, when she was a little girl. She hated going there, the squealing and shrieking of the animals, and the blood splashed everywhere overwhelmed her senses.
She sensed the cold steel of the knife on her inner thigh and then felt it penetrate her. Her mind raced back to the market, she could hear the screaming and see the blood, just like when she was little. Only this time it was hers.
He removed the knife for the last time and spat in her face. He packed the knife and her body parts that he had surgically removed and put them in his bag. He started walking towards his car, but in what seemed like an afterthought, he came running back and kicked Jenny’s almost lifeless body. The dull thud of the impact fractured two of her ribs and made her cough out blood.
The killer walked to his car laughing and drove away like he was on a Sunday drive.
30 minutes later, Jenny Rodriguez was dead.
6
It had been five days since Detective Thompson left Queens for Manhattan. He had been receiving threatening messages from unknown numbers.
Stop the investigation or risk his life and that of his family members.
The police protection given to his parents and sister, while they were in a safe house, gave him peace of mind. His own safety wasn’t as much of a concern. That was the job.
He was shocked about the news of another mutilated body that was recovered in the early hours of the day. The body had been identified as Jenny Rodriguez. He knew instantly that she had met her demise from speaking with him about Brenda Clissen. Guilt overcame him but what was the alternative. Whoever this person was, they were always one step ahead. Reports said that her hands and feet were nailed to the floor – and her genitalia had been butchered and removed. Rats and other animals had begun to feast on her decomposing corpse.
Detective Thompson found it perplexing how the killer had found out that Rodriguez had spoken with him. He considered the possibility of an insider from the police force giving information to the killer.
He brought out the other two files and decided to work on that of Eleanor Rose. A 28 years old college student. She lived in Manhattan with her parents and went missing on a stormy night. The record showed she stayed on Canal street with her parents before she went missing and her body later found.
Her university or college wasn't mentioned in the file. The notes taken were few at best. It dawned on him he had to go the extra mile on this particular case. His internet search about Eleanor Rose was also a failure. If she ever had any social media accounts, they had since been closed. It was surprising her death had not been published on any of the news outlets. Her parents were only questioned one time and that was when they filed a missing person's report. He called the staff assistant and he sent a message through her, to the Rose family, to come down to the precinct to answer a few questions.
He stood up and looked outside over the city. Everyone was naïve to the dangers that lurked in the shadows. He chewed a couple of Tylenol and washed them down with coffee as he returned to his desk. It had been a rough week and he felt like he was losing his flair for sniffing out criminals.
Everyone had barely got over Grace Carmen’s death when Jenny Rodriguez’s body was discovered. He worried about the mental health of the families and friends of the victims and the first responders who were on the scene, when the bodies were found and recovered. The killer was leaving a wide swath of death and anguish. Thompson swore, right then and there, to kill whoever the killer is, if he was ever given the opportunity. That much he was sure of.
Mr. and Mrs. Rose acknowledged the invitation and showed up the next day before noon. They were ushered to Detective Thompson's office where he had been waiting for them. Thompson introduced himself as the new detective on Eleanor’s case and apologized for the apathetic police attitude towards the matter. The couple looked at him with disinterest as he kept on talking.
"I just need you to answer a few questions," he concluded.
"And what if we choose not to?" asked Mr. Rose.
“I'm sorry about your daughter but your testimony will go a long way," he reaffirmed.
“You want whoever did that to my daughter to do that to me?” Mr. Rose snapped. “Or like he did to that Brenda girl’s father? Or you want my wife and me to go missing and add to your stats.”
Mrs. Rose touched his shoulder to calm him down.
It took a minute to restore normalcy to the room. The energy was tense and desperate.
“Thank you but I’m afraid we won’t be able to help you. We are scared for our lives and the lives of other family members. It was a mistake for us to come down here,” Mrs. Rose said.
Detective Thompson pleaded with them to change their minds but ultimately felt compassion for the poor old couple and thanked them for their time. He saw them out of his office and handed them a card. He told them he would be appreciative if the couple would change their minds in the future and get back to him with information about their daughter and if they had any suspicions of who a possible suspect was.
"I told you they wouldn’t talk to you," Christine said, matter-of-factly as Thompson was about to go back into his office.
Her pessimism was beginning to wear on him but maybe he needed that to keep pushing forward to prove her wrong.
"If we coerce them they will," Thompson replied.
"I'm sure you are well aware that is against their constitutional rights," Christine said.
She was leaning on the wall beside him. "I think interrogations would go better if
used a softer approach," Christine added.
Thompson looked on quizzically and asked her to continue.
"My advice is, you start strategically with them, don't just go in and start questioning like some commando in a war zone," Christine said.
With every fibre of his body, Thompson wanted to tell her to mind her own business but then her soft demeanor, her beauty, hypnotized him. It was then he would do whatever she wanted or advised.
"Offer police protection," she added.
Detective Thompson thanked her for the insightful advice.
"Hey, care for a drink later tonight?" Thompson asked.
Christine's face was distorted with a frown and a glint of smile.
"I don't want us to be sneaking around," she said. "Baggins will start yelling at us again like we are a couple of delinquent school kids. I can’t have that.”
"How far have you gotten with the other cases?" Thompson asked.
"Hey, I thought you asked me to stay clear of those cases," Christine replied sarcastically.
A few minutes later, they decided to walk down the street for some fresh air and to the sidewalk vendor who had the best foot longs in the city. They walked casually down the street, relishing the fresh air and the opportunity to get out of the precinct.
"I must say, your commitment towards solving this thing is impressive," Christine said as they joined the busy crowd.
Thompson was skeptical about giving an affirmative reply but he also felt that commitment from within. He is propelled by the passion to help others and if need be, put himself in harm’s way too. That is why he joined the NYPD in the first place - to serve and protect.
Obviously, he was not happy with the results of this case so far; he had met with disappointment at every turn, a suspect yes but no solid leads, just one dead end after another.