He would not—could not—pray to God for help. Vengeance was his new solace. Faith in vengeance would help him carry on and drown out the voices of sympathy that could hinder him. If his acts resulted in unintended victims, then so be it. His mission was bigger than one person—or ten. They had to listen. Mayton arrived back at his van, got behind the wheel, closed his eyes, and waited for the guilt to pass. He started the car and drove to his empty home, his empty life. Somebody had to pay for the dead, black space in his heart. He had paid enough.
– – –
Three hours after first arriving at the Carson Street Incline station, Channing and Lambert were back in the Homicide Squad room. They, along with a slew of other detectives who had been called in, managed to interview dozens of witnesses. Lambert and Channing had also tracked down the Incline operator who Lydia Vantree said had tested out the new car the day before the ceremony. Lambert had gotten the man’s phone number from Vantree, then called and asked him to meet her at the Carson Street station. He was initially reluctant, saying it was his day off, and wanted to know what it was all about. When Lambert told him about the murder, he did not show much interest. When Lambert also mentioned that Andy Lach had been taken away in an ambulance after an apparent heart attack, Mason Preger told her he would be there in ten minutes.
Preger’s story was identical to Vantree’s. He had uncovered the car, checked every part of it—including the newly painted name of Andy Lach—run the car up and down the slope, and replaced the cover over the car.
“There sure as hell wasn’t no dead guy on the front of that thing. I would have noticed that!” Preger told the detectives. “Did you guys hear anything about Andy? That man’s a gem. He’d give you the shirt off his back and then some.”
The detectives had already verified what Lydia Vantree had told them: Andriy Mykhailo Lach, age seventy-three, was dead on arrival at Allegheny General Hospital at 5:27 p.m., the victim of an overdue heart attack. Medication for a serious heart condition was found in his jacket pocket, along with some spare change. The detectives knew all of this, but could not release the information until it was determined if Lach had any next of kin.
“They took him to Allegheny General,” was all Channing could say.
The detectives had left the area as the crime scene techs finished looking for and collecting physical evidence. The Medical Examiner’s office had already hauled away Abdella’s contorted form—another life reduced to a dispassionate autopsy.
Channing sat in the chair across from Lambert. The squad room was empty. All the other detectives were either off duty, still talking to witnesses, or on other cases. Lambert’s meticulously organized desk filled the space between them. Both remained silent, lost in their own thoughts and overwhelmed by the day’s events.
It was Lambert who broke the silence.
“What happened to you after the first day?”
The question hung there like Abdella’s corpse on the front of the car. Channing started to ask what she meant, but he knew.
“I’m sure you heard.”
“I’m sure I did, but not from you.”
Channing turned his head and looked at a clock on the wall. It read 9:03.
“How much did I tell you when you came by my house?”
Lambert shrugged. “Enough that I understand why you drink. Enough that I don’t understand why you’re back. Enough to know you feel guilty, but shouldn’t.”
Channing combed a hand through his hair, stood up, and paced the small space between cluttered desks.
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“If you think you can tell it.”
Sitting on the edge of one of the desks, Channing swallowed hard and organized his thoughts. Looking at his partner, he decided to spare her the most gruesome details, but there was no way of avoiding some of the revolting facts.
“On the second day, Jayakody woke me up with a blow torch.”
Channing saw Lambert’s eyes dart to the desk as she tensed. He stopped to give her a chance to change her mind, but after a moment, she looked at him and nodded for him to continue.
“I was chained to the upright table top. He must have taken me out of the chair, laid the tabletop on the floor, rolled me onto it, chained me to the wood, and then propped everything up against the wall. When I opened my eyes and screamed, his eyes stared right back at me. Jayakody didn’t seem to be taking pleasure in my suffering. He never seemed to take pleasure in it. For him, it all seemed…matter of fact, if you can believe that. He simply burned a spot on my abdomen to give me a jolt, and then he started in with some knives and a box cutter.”
Channing decided to stop there with the description of his torture. It was a memory he did not want to have, much less inject into someone else’s mind.
“Alex was crumpled up in a corner and looked to be asleep. He wasn’t even tied up—no need at that point since he was obviously too weak to stand, much less run. Jayakody worked on me for an hour, maybe two, until I passed out again. I woke later and vaguely remember him unchaining me, flipping me over, and chaining me up again, to expose my back. Then, he said something about running late and told me he’d be back in a while. I heard him move toward a workbench and pick up what sounded like keys and drop them into his pocket. I assumed they were for the padlocks on the chains. Then, I heard his footsteps going up the stairs into the house. Whatever it was he was running late for, it must have kept him longer than expected, because he didn’t come back that day.”
I couldn’t see Alex, but I heard him breathing. I talked to him as much as I could. I asked him if he could move. He came around enough that he was able to speak a little.”
Channing put a hand up to his neck and unnecessarily cleared his throat.
“Our throats were so dry by then, even whispers hurt. We had only been given a few sips of water up to that point.”
Channing stood up from the desk and resumed pacing.
“Alex told me he couldn’t move his arms and he thought his Achilles tendons had been cut. He tried to roll over and yelped from the pain. I knew he wouldn’t make it much longer. He’d lost too much blood and he said he was freezing. His body was going into shock and I doubted he would live through the night.”
With no small amount of shame, Channing admitted, “Truth be told, I hoped he wouldn’t. He was disfigured beyond recognition and was suffering every second.”
Channing skipped over several of the hours that followed. He remembered both he and Alex crying. The apologies each of them made to the other. The praying they did together. That was just for them.
“Jayakody didn’t come back until the next morning. He spent some time doing some more damage on my back, and then choked me until I lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I was laying where Alex had been and Alex was back on the tabletop. Jayakody wasn’t in the room. The tabletop was lying on the floor, nearly ten feet from me. Alex had burns on his chest and abdomen, and I could smell burnt flesh. The blowtorch was next to his feet. Alex’s head was swinging side to side and he was mumbling something. I tried to move and was surprised that, like Alex had been when he was on the floor, I wasn’t restrained. I tried to stand, but my legs were too weak.
It took me several minutes and I nearly passed out from the pain, but I finally was able to slide over toward Alex. He couldn’t see me, but I let him know I was there. I tried to make out what he was saying, but most of it was gibberish. Then I thought I caught four words that made sense. I leaned in closer. He inhaled deeply and the words fought to get out of his mouth. Alex said, “He…left…the…keys.” I looked up toward the workbench where Jayakody had placed the keys previously.
From my position on the floor, it was hard to tell, but just off the edge of the bench, I could see a flash of silver. A set of keys were barely visible. Can you believe that? Through near total blindness, unimaginable pain, and paralyzing fear, Alex noticed that Jayakody hadn’t pocketed the keys as he had done before. I told Alex I was
going to go for the keys and I started to slide away. Without warning, Alex shot his left arm out, extending a rust-covered chain to its limits, and he grabbed my wrist. He said something else, but I told him to save his breath and I’d come back with the keys. I patted his hand and started pushing myself along the floor with my arms. The workbench was only a short distance away, but it might have been a mile. Eventually, I made it.”
Channing interrupted his pacing and stood squarely in front of Lambert’s desk. He waited for her reaction.
Lambert looked at him and recognition slowly registered on her face.
“He…he was alive when you made it to the keys.”
Channing did not respond. The two detectives stared at each other in a silence thick with revelation and understanding.
Lambert opened her mouth to speak when a door opened in the back of the squad room and an enervated-looking Harris rushed in. Channing did not break eye contact with his partner. Lambert looked away first, acknowledging Harris with a nod. Then she picked up and shuffled some papers on her desk. Harris paused, sensing he interrupted something, and then told the pair to come into his office. Without uttering a sound, the detectives followed.
“I just got off the phone with Drayson and Wyche.”
Channing watched Harris situate himself behind his desk. At the mention of the Lieutenant and Captain who coordinated the activities of the Homicide Squad, Channing frowned. In his experience, when the brass got involved, things went sideways in a hurry.
Harris, in spite of spending most of his time behind a desk these days, was still, in essence, a good street cop. He was obviously uncomfortable with whatever news he was about to deliver. Automatically, his focus went to the coffee mug sitting on his desk.
“Obviously, the Culligan and Abdella killings are connected. So, it’s been decided that we’ll be forming a task force. It will be a combination of Homicide detectives and our Dignitary and Witness Security guys. DWS will be assigned to various city officials and will sort through any threatening letters and calls. Homicide will follow up on any leads.”
Channing knew where this was going, but temporarily bit his tongue.
“We don’t know for sure they are connected. Until the forensics come back, we have to assume it could be a copycat,” said Lambert, not believing it herself.
Harris took his eyes off the mug long enough to give her a look that said, Oh come on.
Channing spoke up. “And who exactly will be heading up the task force?”
Not looking up, Harris said, “Drayson will be running it, but the lead detective will be Hatley.”
At this, Channing balled up his fists.
“Hatley! That kiss-ass couldn’t find a mausoleum in a cemetery!”
“It wasn’t my call,” said the sergeant, still looking at the mug. “You know he’s close with Wyche and Drayson.”
Lambert chimed in. “So that’s it? We’re done? The damaged poster-boy and the fresh, black face are getting thrown off the boat?”
Channing turned toward her. So she had realized why they had been paired up and assigned to the case. And all this time, she had kept it inside.
“You two will still be on the case. It will just be in a lower-profile capacity.”
The way Harris said the last few words made Channing think that they weren’t Harris’s words, but someone’s above him. They may not be getting thrown off the boat yet, but they were sure being told to put on their life jackets.
“Ken…I think I have a real feel for this guy. He’s isolated. He’s full of rage. Don’t put us on the periphery on this one. We need all the Intel going through us.”
Harris’s eyes remained on the mug and he did not respond.
“Ken, listen to me!”
Channing’s arm struck out like a snake grabbing the mug off the desk. With a powerful motion, he threw the mug against the wall to the right of the desk. All three individuals winced slightly, expecting a shattering of ceramic. Instead, the mug thudded into the wall, creating a hole, then fell harmlessly onto the carpet a few feet below the hole.
The damn thing really is possessed, thought Channing. He rolled his eyes in exacerbation. Harris and Lambert looked at the senior detective in silence. Harris stoically stood up.
“You two will still be working the case, but just the Culligan part. Keep sifting through his background and see what you can find. Keep Hatley and me informed. He will handle any press inquiries and hand out any other assignments.”
Lambert turned her back to Harris and headed out the door. “This is bullshit.”
Harris looked at the only other detective present in the room and nodded. “I know it is, but you know the game. It’s higher profile than it was when it was just about Culligan.”
“And now the powers that be have decided that having an inexperienced, black female and her drunk of a partner may not have been the best choice to head up the investigation?”
The sergeant started to feign surprise and act as if he did not know Channing was drinking heavily, but decided not to insult the man.
“Just do what you can and stay busy. There’ll be more eyes on this than Hatley’s.”
Channing said, “Sure,” and started to leave.
“And Jackson.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you please hand me my mug? I rather like it.”
In the squad room, Channing found Lambert waiting at his desk.
“I didn’t mean to call you damaged.”
“You weren’t lying,” said Channing.
They both stood in the quiet of the room for a few long seconds, not knowing what to say.
“Let’s call it a day. Tomorrow, we’ll take another look at everything and figure out which direction to go.”
“I guess we’ll have to brief Hatley,” said Lambert. The words tasted sour coming out of her mouth.
“Yeah, I guess,” said Channing.
They grabbed their coats and walked through the room.
“A mausoleum in a cemetery?” asked Lambert. “An interesting analogy.”
Channing shook his head. “It wasn’t an analogy. He was once supposed to meet the widow of a man killed during a convenience store robbery at the cemetery where the victim was being buried. She told him, ‘Just look for the mausoleum and you’ll be able to find me.’ When Hatley was on the phone with her arranging the meeting, he thought she said Muslim. So, he drove around the cemetery for an hour looking for anyone who might look like a Muslim. He eventually tracked her down at home that night after she had called the squad, furious at being stood up. Hatley told the guys in the squad that it wasn’t his fault and that not one single person in the cemetery was even wearing a turban.”
Lambert stopped walking, grabbed Channing’s arm, and said, “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“As Allah is my witness.”
“We’re screwed,” she said.
“Yep,” was all he could say to that.
– – –
Mayton slept well after he arrived home from viewing the results of his efforts at the Incline. He feared the nightmare might return, but he drifted off while replaying the beautiful, slow lowering of Adbella’s body over and over in his mind. The sun was just coming up when he began his exercise routine. Forget the spiritual and focus on the physical, he kept telling himself. Forty-five minutes later, he was standing in front of the fireplace drinking black coffee. The large print of The Last Judgment hung there in its thick frame. He focused on his favorite section of the piece.
He wondered if the story of St. Bartholomew being skinned alive was true. There were other stories involving drowning and crucifixion, but for some reason Michelangelo chose to depict the martyr holding his own flesh. The ferocity portrayed in Bartholomew’s face said it all.
Mayton showered, shaved, and dressed. He turned on the television—something he rarely did—and watched the news coverage of the murder at the Incline. Of course, nobody was actually killed at the Incline, but Mayton supp
osed the news station decided it sounded more dramatic that way. Then, Mayton’s mood fell. The reporter at the scene said that an elderly man, a man who was being honored for a life of service, had died of an apparent heart attack upon seeing the bloody display on the front of the Incline car.
“It was just his time,” Mayton said aloud. “It was just his time.”
He turned off the television and walked out to the shed behind his house. He needed rope from there—a lot of rope. With the proper amount of rope and a few pulleys, he could get it just right. There was no shortage of rope. Like many of the other tools he used for his mission, he spent months making the rope himself, in plain sight of others. From a large spool, he measured off the right length. As always—he measured once. He measured twice.
Step 8
We made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.
T he sheets around him were soaked. The shivering began around three o’clock in the morning and got progressively worse. He gave in to the withdrawal symptoms at five-thirty and drank his last two remaining beers. The beers did not do much, but the alcohol hitting his bloodstream made the shaking subside enough that he could brush his teeth and clean up a bit. While shaving at the bathroom mirror, he looked at the trench works across his body, knew his back was not any better than the front. An image of Alex flashed in his head. His hands reaching for Alex. Alex, his nose mutilated, spit and blood coming out of his mouth, saying, “Please. Please.”
Stop it. Just stop it, thought Channing. He dropped the razor and wiped his face. He grabbed his cell phone and tried to call Mary. As expected, he heard four rings and then the call went straight to voice mail, but at least he got to hear her recorded voice. He hung up and dialed again. Four more rings. Then, he closed his eyes and listened to the voice again. It was as soothing as a lullaby.
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