Measure Twice

by J. J. Hensley

  – – –

  The sun had set and the hospital room was unevenly illuminated by florescent lights. Hopkins and Lambert sat beside Channing’s bed attempting to convince him to remain in the hospital overnight. Harris had left after being briefed by Channing and Lambert. The veteran officer was unconvinced by Channing’s insistence that he would be ready to return to duty in the morning and he confirmed his suspicions when his search for a medical chart was unsuccessful. Harris had watched the three conspirators, looking for one of them to crack, then gave a gesture of surrender and headed out the door.

  Hopkins stood, placing a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “I’m heading back north. I’ll go pay a visit to Bryan Clifton and find out what project he was working on in the city. Even if it was a different project, it doesn’t mean Harper didn’t have a hand in the work on the city buildings.”

  Once Hopkins was gone, Channing turned his head to Lambert and said, “I need you to do me a favor. Is my coat in here somewhere—maybe the closet?”

  Lambert frowned. “It is, but you don’t need it.”

  “I’m not checking out. I’ll wait until morning, but I need my coat.”

  Channing’s partner locked her eyes on to his. “I know what you want from your coat and you don’t need it.”

  “Tina, I’m working on it. I really am, but it’s going to take a while. I just need a sip from the flask in my coat pocket.”

  Lambert sighed and reached into her own coat pocket. “You mean this flask?”

  Channing waited for an explanation.

  “I didn’t want the EMTs to find it on you. If they found it and showed it to Harris, or anyone else for that matter, you’d be suspended for sure.”

  Channing thanked her and reached for the flask. To his annoyance, Lambert held it just out of his reach.

  “Let me ask you something,” she said. “When I went into that warehouse, I thought I heard you screaming from the loading dock. Were you?”

  Channing explained how he hurt his knee on the platform.

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Lambert. “I heard you scream for me to stop, and you called my name.”

  “All right. So what?”

  “I heard something in your voice that seemed out of character for you. I heard panic. Extreme panic. Then, instead of waiting for Harris—who couldn’t have been far behind you—you rushed in and managed to get yourself hurt.”

  “You rushed in, too,” replied Channing.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I can’t get your tone of voice out of my head. I think you saw your partner going through a door without you and you freaked out a bit. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Channing said nothing.

  “I’m not him,” said Lambert.

  Looking away, Channing mumbled, “I know that.”

  Placing a hand on his face and turning him back toward her, Lambert said each of her next words slowly. “You are not responsible for me.”

  “Yes I am. I was responsible for Alex and I’m responsible for you. If something happened to you…”

  Lambert removed her hand and sat back in her chair.

  “You told me Alex was alive when you got the keys to the chains.”

  Again, Channing turned his head away.

  “The official account was that Jayakody killed Alex while you were unconscious. Then, since you were unable to climb the steps out of the basement, you found a long garden rake, positioned yourself beneath the stairs, and waited for Jayakody to return. When he finally descended the stairs, you tripped him—the way he tripped you—and you…you took care of him with the rake.”

  Channing closed his eyes and saw the prongs of the rake repeatedly entering his captor’s neck.

  “Then, you found a cell phone on his body and called for help. But that’s not what happened is it?”

  Channing cleared his throat and found his partner’s eyes.

  “No,” said Channing as he replayed that day in his mind. “Like I told you before, Alex was still alive when I got to the keys.”

  He could smell the dank air of the basement in his nostrils. An imagined heat on the cuts across his chest and back made him involuntarily squirm in the bed.

  “I reached the keys and crawled back to Alex. He was so weak—almost too weak to cry. I started to unlock one of his wrists when he told me to stop. He knew we were both too weak to get out of that basement and he thought he was near the end. Alex said he was in so much pain—too much for anyone to stand. I tried to tell him it would be all right. “We’ll find a way out of here,” I lied. But he was begging me…pleading with me to…end it. My disfigured, dying friend and partner was suffering as much as anyone could suffer and he was begging me to put him out of his misery. Of course, I told him I wouldn’t do it. I unlocked his wrists and then another thirty or forty minutes passed. At some point, I realized we had no idea if or when our tormentor was coming back. During that time, I crawled my way up the basement stairs, only to find the thick door locked from the other side. I returned to Alex’s side. Over the next hour, Alex’s begging persisted and he wore me down. I didn’t have the guts to do it myself, so I leaned over him—my own blood-filled tears falling on his face, mixing with his—and I handed him a long piece of glass I had found under the steps. Alex thanked me and then my friend slit his own throat.”

  There was a vacant look on Channing’s face and a certain kind of numbness in his voice. His speechless partner sat motionless.

  “You probably know most of what happened next. A few hours after I helped Alex die, Jayakody came home. The part about me killing Jayakody and using his cell phone is true. The first officer on the scene was an old-timer named Charlton. He came through the door to the basement and found me leaning against a wall, sobbing and ranting about how I had killed my partner. He took one look at what Jayakody had done to Alex…and to me…and told me that I didn’t kill Alex and that there certainly wasn’t any sign of suicide. He informed me that Alex was the victim of the sick bastard laying there with metal spikes in his throat, and that I needed to keep my mouth shut until I could get my head right.”

  Channing came back to the present and turned back to his partner. “I don’t remember much over the next couple of days. By the time I regained my senses in the hospital, my supervisor was in my room telling me the same story that Charlton had told. He made it pretty clear that he didn’t want my account of what had happened. We both knew what was going on, that a lie was being constructed to protect me—and the department—but neither of us stopped it from happening.”

  “The supervisor was Harris?” Lambert asked.

  Channing nodded.

  “I was in the hospital for weeks. Of course, I stayed away from reading newspapers or watching the local news. When I was released, I discovered I was being touted as a hero for having escaped the ordeal and ridding the world of a monster. And the story wouldn’t go away because it was too juicy for the press to ignore. Not only did it turn out that two serial killers unknowingly lived down the street from one another, but the same cops ended up having contact with both of them. There was no way the story was going to fade away.”

  Lambert sat forward. “From what you described, there is no way Alex would have lived. You did what you thought was right.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I gave up on him. I let my friend and partner go into a house by himself and then I killed him. End of story.”

  “So you decided to come back to work and…what? You think you can find some sort of atonement for what you did? And you’re going to blindly rush in to try to save me, even if it gets you killed? This is your plan?”

  Channing did not speak.

  “In your house, I saw pictures of a woman. Is that your wife?”

  Channing looked at his left hand and his thumb brushed against his wedding band. “Yes, at least for now. I forced her away.”

  “She had to have told you that Alex’s death wasn’t your fault. I’m sure she tried to help
you.”

  “She did,” said Channing, lowering his hand. “But I had started drinking and taking pills. I wouldn’t listen to her. Now, she won’t speak to me. I don’t blame her one bit. I call her cell phone a few times a week, but she never answers.”

  “Do you know what? I’m going to give you your flask.” She laid the flask on the bed beside Channing. “Drink up if you want. But ask yourself if you should be rushing around trying get yourself killed protecting me as a way of making amends to Alex, or if your time would be better spent making amends to your wife…and to yourself. Just think about it and decide which way you want this to go.”

  Channing reached across his chest and picked the flask up with the hand that wore his wedding ring. In front of his face, the silver flask appeared gray under the lights.

  Without looking at his partner, he placed the flask back down on the bed and said, “I’m checking out of here in the morning.” He turned away from Lambert and closed his eyes. “You should get out of here and get some sleep.”

  Lambert started to say something, but stopped herself. She stood to leave.

  “Take the flask with you,” said Channing, without opening his eyes. If his eyes were open, he might have seen a small smile appear on his partner’s lips as she exited the room.

  Step 10

  We continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

  T he tiny feet tapped across the barren floor. He was lying on his side, his face pressed deep into the old mattress. Hearing the sound, a drowsy eye crept open. Finding the source of the offending noise, Mayton focused on the creature. The mouse stopped and raised its nose into the air, and then continued its trek along the wall. Mayton rolled over on his back and heard the mouse skitter away, startled by his movement.

  The dryness of his mouth made him feel sicker than he already was. He sat up, dug around in a bag he had brought with him, and pulled out a bottle of water. After downing half of the bottle, he lay back down, closed his eyes, and felt the room spin. He wondered how people drank alcohol on a regular basis.

  Turning back onto his side and pulling the blankets around him, he watched the area where the fire had gone cold during the night. He tried to tell himself that everything was going according to plan, but he knew something was off. Something had pulled a thread of his own consciousness, and his intellect and awareness were unraveling. How could he have been so stupid and selfish? To stand in front of that church, gawking at what he had done.

  The company where he had worked considered him the expert in Quality Control. He knew better than anyone that every process has a predictable rate of failure. To reduce that rate, one has to reduce the variations in the process. It is that simple. He could not understand how he had allowed himself to get off track. What is happening to me? he thought. One look from that detective, and he had panicked. He may have killed that man, Channing, but regardless, now people had seen his face. Even if they did not know exactly who Mayton was, the walls were closing in on him.

  Keeping his eyes closed, he finally allowed himself to wonder how things would end for him. He had intensely focused on killing those who had taken so much from him. But now that only one remained, he finally had the luxury of considering his own fate. Eventually, he would be tracked down. He knew this. But did he want to live long enough to tell his story in a courtroom, or rather let his message speak for itself? Maybe it doesn’t matter, he thought. When the time comes, it may not be up to me.

  For some reason, this made Mayton smile. The realization that he did not know how it would all end excited him. Pushing the heavy blankets off, he stood and rubbed his face. There, his fingers found thick stubble. The hangover he was experiencing made the rubbing sound seem louder than it was. Surprising himself, Mayton laughed aloud. His next kill would close the loop and Mayton would take his time with the victim. He would remain deaf to the cries for mercy, while inflicting a level of pain that few could imagine. Then, when he was finished, he wouldn’t put the body in some spectacular location for all to see. No, he would put it in a park where the city’s three rivers merge, a place where the victim could still face the scene of his evil act.

  Excitement built inside of him. He wanted blood and he wanted it right then and there. Trying to calm himself, he reminded himself that he had no choice but to wait. By now, Wayland would have been identified and his target would be nervous and well protected. That was all right with Mayton. There would be no more variation in the process he had planned out and the odds of failure would be miniscule. Taking a cell phone from his bag, he dialed a number. Attempting to hide his impatience, he spoke into the phone slowly and clearly. His instructions were precise and the listener understood every last detail.

  – – –

  Putting her cell phone away, Lambert said, “It’s Washington’s Landing.”

  Channing nodded. Quick glances, rolling eyes, and even a few snickers had welcomed his presence in the squad room. In law enforcement, he knew it was hard to earn respect, but ridicule and condemnation came easy. Word had spread about the previous day’s dubious pursuit and Channing managing to get his ass kicked at the conclusion of the chase. The already wary detectives now looked at Channing as a liability at best. Channing pushed it aside.

  “That was Backhoe?”

  “He talked to Clifton who verified he had been working on the Washington’s Landing project,” answered Lambert. “Not only that, but Clifton said it was the only project Harper Construction had going on in the city at the time.”

  Channing swiveled his chair and felt pain shoot through his torso. His tightly wrapped ribcage ached with every breath. His wrist was heavily taped and the detective wore his sport coat to conceal as much of the bandage as possible. It had taken him an hour of arguing with the doctors at the hospital in the morning, and another thirty minutes of awkwardly signing waivers and release forms with his left hand, before he got out of the hospital. He had taken a cab home, changed his clothes, and then called Lambert to pick him up. He was tired, beat up, and he craved alcohol, but he continued to focus on the task at hand.

  “We need to check the background of that project. What’s so special about it?” asked Channing, not expecting an answer.

  “I did some internet research earlier this morning. Other than a few small stories in the press about the development of the island and the new municipal buildings, I couldn’t find anything.”

  Both detectives fell silent, waiting for a revelation to come to either of them. The silence extended as they watched a ragged-looking Harris arrive and move through the squad room. Without making eye contact with anyone, he evaporated into his office and closed the door.

  “Do you think we’ll all get suspended?” asked Lambert.

  “I don’t know,” said Channing. “The brass will hold off for a few days. They would look awfully silly if they suspended us and then it turns out we were chasing the right guy. Right now, they have bigger problems. Every city official is screaming for protection and the most prominent ones are effectively in lockdown. First, the department will try to manage the crisis, then it will look for scapegoats if need be.”

  Lambert’s head dropped, and for the first time, Channing saw a lack of confidence overwhelming his partner.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?” she asked.

  “You got a bad deal all the way around. You were paired up with me on an all-or-nothing case. You had to help me carry my baggage. I unloaded a lot of personal stuff on you. And now you may take some heat because I chased a man just because he looked wrong. Not to mention, we may never find that guy since he was wearing gloves and didn’t leave any prints on the pipe he used to pummel me.” Half joking, he continued, “If it makes you feel any better, you could probably sue the department for setting you up to fail.”

  “That’s it,” said Lambert.

  Channing held up his good hand. “Wait a second…I really don’t know if you can sue. I didn’t really�
�”

  His partner cut him off. “We need to search for any court records on those properties. Maybe there was a civil action that didn’t make the news. There could have been a property dispute or something like that.”

  Channing agreed that it was worth a shot.

  Pulling car keys out of her pocket, she suggested, “Let’s head over to the courthouse and dig around. Maybe we can see if there is a reason for someone to be really pissed off about that project.”

  Channing, who had been impatiently waiting for the tip-line records to be sent over from the detectives in the Narcotics section, pulled a sleeve down over his bandaged arm and followed his partner out the door.

  – – –

  The granola bar was dry and tasteless. Mayton forced himself to chew as he adjusted the rear view mirror. Even with the sparse amount of light entering the parked van, he could see how pale he was. Shoving the mirror around and taking another bite of food, he squinted to see the footpath that ran through the deserted park present itself in front of him. Taking his sleeve and wiping fog from the interior of the windshield, he waited, much like he had waited countless times before.

  “Right on schedule,” he said to himself as he saw a figure in the distance. The person was easily a hundred yards away from Mayton’s van and, as always, paid it no attention. Not immediately seeing the other thing he had expected to see, Mayton grabbed his binoculars and raised them to his face. A second later, he adjusted the focus and two blurry images behind his target became distinguishable. The two bodyguards were trailing the target during what had traditionally been a solitary morning run. Not only were the guards present, but they appeared to be attentively scanning the area while they ran. One of them even seemed to notice the van, but stayed with his charge as the trio made a turn and disappeared from view. Mayton started the van and cranked up the heater. More fog shot up the windshield and then slowly vanished from the bottom up.