by Eric M Hill
The governor was known for being a bit more oratorical than was necessary. The assessment that he liked to hear himself talk wasn’t without merit. The speech he gave at the Peace Officers Memorial Service was not without its oratory. Yet it was without the usual flowery phrases. There were thorns instead of flowers.
Succinctly, violent criminals had made life a living hell and Texans weren’t going to put up with it. Top Four criminals could not victimize Texans and then hide behind America’s flag or its Constitution. The state of Texas would take every measure necessary to protect its citizens, and especially its frontline law enforcement officers. If that meant keeping Top Four prisoners in handcuffs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so be it.
A reporter had asked the governor some questions afterwards on live television.
“Governor Richardson, what exactly are you saying? Texas is going to disobey a Supreme Court decision?”
“Amanda, the Supreme Court hasn’t yet ruled on this matter. So there is nothing yet to disobey, as you put it.”
“But if the U.S. Supreme Court does rule that Chief King’s handcuff policy is unconstitutional, will—”
“Amanda, I thought I was quite clear in my speech, but so that there will be no ambiguity in how far Texas will go in defending its right to protect its law enforcement officers as they do their jobs, I’ll speak even more clearly. I revere our Constitution. I respect the United States Supreme Court. But I love Texas.
“If someone…anyone orders Chief King to take the cuffs off those animals, I will not only support his defiance of that order, I will order the immediate implementation of this policy in every state prison in Texas.”
The reporter was stunned.
“But if you elevate this matter, won’t that make it impossible for the federal government to not take physical action in enforcing the rule of law.”
The governor’s eyes were sharp.
“You mean won’t that make it impossible for the federal government to not invade Texas as it did in Humble when it tried to take our guns? He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I have several ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot, Burned, And Mutilated’ signs around my property.
“I haven’t yet had the pleasurable opportunity to prove how much I believe in those signs.” The governor stopped her question with a hand. “To anyone who may be so foolish as to contemplate another invasion of Texas, and specifically our state capitol of Austin,” he motioned in a slow wave of his arm, “imagine similar signs all around the boundaries of the great state of Texas.
“There are thirty-seven million people in Texas, and most of them armed. If we are invaded by a federal force, we will cut them down.”
Four muscled correctional officers waited outside the closed cage door for Chief King and Dr. Anderson. An officer pulled back the top and middle steel slides. “Prisoner! Your hands!” he yelled.
The prisoner faced the door and stuck his hands out the slide. Dr. Anderson stared at the hands that had strangled his daughter. His handcuffs were removed. The prisoner turned around and stuck his hands back through the slide. They put the handcuffs back on him. Now his hands were cuffed behind instead of in front of him.
“Go to the wall. Place the heels of your feet against the wall. Lower to your knees and get on your belly,” commanded the officer. “We are going to enter. If you make any attempt to get up, we will use extreme force. Do you understand, prisoner?”
“Yes sir, Officer,” said the prisoner, his voice a mixture of respect and ridicule.
“Dr. Anderson, you want to do this?” he whispered. “This animal has no remorse. He’s liable to say anything.” He looked at the doctor with eyes that said he understood if he chose to walk away without talking to this prisoner.
“I need to do it,” said Anderson.
They opened the door. The room was small and bare. Smaller than Anderson thought it would be. The only thing in the room was a bed, a toilet, and a camera lens in what Anderson assumed was an unbreakable shell. It was affixed to the ceiling. How can a person live like this? he thought.
A correctional officer went to the rear of the prisoner and shackled his ankles together. Another officer put a mask over his mouth to prevent him from spitting on anyone. An officer stood behind the prisoner. His boots planted firmly on both sides of the prisoner’s calves.
“Prisoner,” barked the officer behind him, “I am going to lift you to your knees. If you resist in any way, I will use extreme force. Do you understand?”
“I sure do, Officer.” Again, that same feint of mockery.
The officer placed a leather gloved hand under the prisoner’s throat and lifted at the same time while he pressed down on his head to prevent a backward headbutt. This method had been made standard after three broken noses from prisoners headbutting officers.
The man who had murdered Emerald was on his knees before him with his head bowed. Dr. Anderson found himself slowly reaching into his jacket for his gun. He felt nothing but empty holsters. Both guns had been surrendered to Chief King earlier. The chief observed this and said nothing, knowing that had this been his own daughter, this man would already be dead.
The prisoner lifted his head. Dr. Anderson’s eyes widened at the mess he saw.
Chapter 17
“Ain’t a pretty sight, am I?” said Emerald’s murderer. “Austin justice. Compliments of my friend’s in uniform.” A pained chuckle worked its way out of his bloodied and hugely swollen lips. He coughed and grimaced.
Anderson looked at the man, emotion not yet registering. It was as though it hadn’t made its way through the clogged pipe of his numbness. He’d lived such a secluded life of research and inventing that violent crime had always been like a violent storm. Winds blowing. Rain falling. Thunder clapping. Lightning flashing. He knew it was there. But there was out there. Always out there. But this battered man kneeling before him had brought the storm into his home.
“Resisted arrest,” said Chief King.
The man’s face was still technically a face. It had two eyes, a nose, a mouth—with teeth missing. However, they were all swollen into one bumpy contour that made it necessary to use one’s imagination to see where one ended and the other began. One of the eyes was shut tight under its bulge. The other managed a tight slit for a red eye with no white anywhere. The nose had been flattened.
The man’s head dropped heavily, as though his neck couldn’t support it. “That’s right. Resisted arrest. After they handcuffed me…” he coughed and grimaced again. Anderson guessed correctly that he had internal injuries from resisting arrest. “I tried to break their hands by slamming my face against their fists.”
“Prisoner,” an officer began a command before Anderson interrupted.
“Please, let him speak. I need to hear this man.”
That caused some odd looks among the guards.
The murderer lifted his face. It was impossible to see whether there was a grin, but he sounded as though he would grin if his face could now do such a thing. “What do you want to talk about?”
“My daughter.”
“Who’s your daughter?”
“The one you murdered.”
The red eye looked out of its slit. It blinked several times as though irritated. “Which one?”
Anderson’s mouth dropped open. He felt the blood leave his face. His heart sank for the other parents whom this man had robbed of their daughters.
The man laughed. It sounded like someone trying weakly to cough up phlegm. “You look surprised. There’s a lot of beautiful game out there. You have to help me here.”
There wasn’t a single Austin law enforcement or correctional officer who didn’t know who Dr. Anderson was or that it was his money that supplemented their incomes and had built the new police department and jail. The officer behind the kneeling prisoner looked at the chief. He’d love to shut this criminal’s mouth for him.
The chief reluctantly shook his head.
“Game?” said Anderson.
“Yeah, game. Deer. Turkey. Pheasant.” The man thought. “Duck. Rabbit. Women.”
“You hunted my daughter? She was game to you?”
“They’re all game.”
“Why’d you choose her?”
“Tell me which one was yours.”
Which one? Dr. Anderson winced inside. The words were like an ice pick to his soul. The killer seemed to sense his pain and was enjoying it.
“At least tell me the city.” He studied Anderson’s face. “There was one…dark-haired girl in Abilene. She looks sort of like you. A lot prettier, though.”
“You don’t mind revealing that you killed a dark-haired woman in Abilene,” said Anderson.
“Why should I? These fine officers know I’m a T1.”
Anderson looked at the chief. “Top four criminals. T1’s a murderer. T2’s a rapist. T3’s a robber. T4’s are beaters, but they aren’t recognized as anything special.”
“Special?” asked Anderson.
“I mean in jail,” the chief said. “T4’s aren’t looked at as anything special in jail. Beating is just beating. It’s like blowing your nose. T1’s. They get all the respect.”
“You know what they call me in prison?” the murderer said to Anderson. “King Carl. That’s what they call me. King Carl.”
Anderson was aghast. He looked at the chief. He nodded agreement. This was insane! Emerald was lying disfigured and dead in a drawer, and this man was honored among his criminal peers for putting her there. “My daughter,” he said, getting closer to the line he knew he’d have to cross. “She was the one you killed yesterday.”
“I hunted twice yesterday,” he bragged. “One at the shopping center. Then I followed one, but I had to leave her alone because she was headed to West Lake Hills. Those rich folks over there got a crazy community self-defense group. They’ll shoot you dead on the spot if you’re a felon.”
The murderer looked toward the chief. “Hey, I want to report those people, Chief. Those fat cats are violating people’s privacy rights. They got poles everywhere with facial recognition cameras on them. They made one of my friends give them his fingerprint. Did you know they got a device over there that checks the fingerprint and gives them our criminal record? They shot Billy full of holes like that old Bonnie and Clyde movie. Sixty-eight bullet holes. Is that legal?”
“No, that’s not legal, prisoner,” said the chief. “The authorized limit is sixty-five bullet holes. They went three over the limit. We’ll be sure to talk to somebody over there.”
“Thank you, Chief. I knew you’d get right on it,” said the murderer.
“The girl in the shopping center, she’s my daughter,” said Anderson.
“She’s dead, right?” said the killer.
“Yes, she’s dead,” answered Anderson.
“Then she was your daughter,” King Carl corrected.
The officer behind him looked at the chief again. He got another reluctant head shake.
The grotesquely beaten face moved. “Ohh, that one had problems. Must’ve had a terrible childhood. Lots of pent up anger. Nearly beat me to death.” He paused. “But it was worth it. She was the best I ever had. At least the best I had in a long time.”
“Why are you talking to me?” asked Anderson.
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s not like I have anything else planned,” King Carl toyed. “Besides, the longer I talk to you, the less time that leaves me to resist these fine officers.”
“You don’t mind incriminating yourself?”
King Carl coughed a laugh. “I guess everybody but you know the court system is broken. If this wasn’t Austin, I could be in here for ten or fifteen years waiting for a trial date. Maybe I get lucky like a lot of people and they let me walk because you didn’t give me a speedy trial. Maybe I get lucky and go to trial in ten years, and the DA offers a sweetheart deal to close the books.”
“Or option three,” said the chief.
King Carl chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Forgot about that one. Or option three. Make the mistake of getting caught for murder in Austin and get killed trying to escape.”
Anderson looked at the man for several seconds, pondering the hopelessness of human nature. “How many women have you murdered?”
“Including girls?” King Carl said, with the thorough innocence of a psychopath.
“Yes, including girls.”
The murderer gurgled a laugh and shook his head in defeat. “I used to keep up, but honestly,” he shook his head with his slitted eye closed and let out a long, loud breath, as though pondering a hard math problem. “I’d say maybe close to sixty. But some of those women gotta take some responsibility. They shouldn’t be out at night. We rule the night.”
Anderson had felt something changing inside of him when he had first gotten the news of his daughter’s murder. A wholesale evolution of his soul. At first, he figured the change was whatever happened to any parent who receives such news. But the more this murderer spoke to him, the clearer it became that the change he felt was not an evolution but a devolution. Something primal. Something awful. Something base and thoroughly dark.
Dr. Anderson looked at the chief. “I’ve heard enough.”
“The fighter,” said the murderer, “your daughter. She said something just before she died.”
Anderson felt the murderer take complete mastery of his heart. He looked at him with begging in his eyes. He needed his daughter’s rapist and murderer to tell him that her last words were, Daddy, I love you. It was totally unrealistic and undeserved, but he hoped anyway.
“Know what she said?” His face twisted again into what Anderson assumed was another attempt at a smile. “She said, ‘Daddy, where are you? Daddy, help me.’”
There.
He felt it leave. Whatever it was that had made him different from a jackal or a tiger or a wolf. Whatever it was that had enabled him to ponder morality, civility, and humanity had swirled downward around the drain of his soul and had exited a hole ripped open by the cold truth of his inability to love.
His gift had finally taken from him something that no amount of brilliance or money could recover. He knew he’d seen his last sunrise and his last sunset. But not because he was going to kill himself. That was unnecessary. He was already dead. No, he’d never see a sunrise or sunset again because he was now a creature of the night. A creature of darkness.
It was now time to walk among those who ruled the night.
Chapter 18
Anderson didn’t choose Tarrytown or Westlake Hills or neighborhoods like them. The more well off the neighborhood, the more likely they were to have a vigilant, well-organized community self-defense group—he knew Westlake Hills had one. His daughter’s murderer had said violent criminals ruled the night. He needed to go where the vampires were.
Something just beneath the surface of conscious thought needed to prove that King Carl and his kind weren’t kings over Austin. And something a little closer to the surface wanted to walk the dark streets for his dead daughter, who should’ve been able to go shopping without being brutalized by a so-called top four predator.
He selected downtown first. Chief King had shared much about the city. So he knew it would have a good police presence. This, however, didn’t mean downtown was safe; it wasn’t. For whatever had been unleashed on the nation with the 2016 spike had hardwired people’s moral inhibitions to such a low resistance level that even the presence of cops was no guarantee that you were safe.
Dr. Anderson found himself walking slowly down Sixth Street, weaving around the hundreds of defiant Austinites enjoying the long stretch of clubs and restaurants—at night. They knew the nation was at war with itself. They knew there were wolves out there who considered them lambs. But here they were anyway! Smiling. Reveling. Dancing. Drinking. This was Austin! The live music capitol of the world!
Dr. Anderson looked over his left shoulder. Six helmeted police officers on horses approached on the right side of the street. He watched them slowly pass as they surveyed the
crowds. He felt a sense of pride as Chief King’s officers sent a strong message to any predators among the partyers. It wouldn’t happen on their watch!
They weren’t fifty feet away when it happened.
A young woman directly ahead of him, maybe ten feet away, stood to the right of pedestrian traffic, her back facing him—and facing four men who were obviously impressed with the immodesty of the woman’s attire.
One guy took a quick scan in every direction. “Go!” he whispered to another.
One of the men hopped a few steps to the woman and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned toward him. He hit her with a closed, gloved fist in the face and she fell, unconscious. He and another guy scooped her up while the other two looked around. They ran with her limp body to the alley.
Dr. Anderson felt his head swirl. He was no longer on Sixth Street. He was at the Diavanni’s parking lot. Emerald was walking toward a high-top white van. The door opened. King Carl jumped out. His daughter was fighting. She was trying to get in the car. He yanked her to the ground. The knife went down again and again.
Dr. Anderson wobbled to the left, then passed out to the right, landing hard on the ground.
He had been in mid-wobble and oblivious to what was going on around him when a young white woman in a short skirt and midriff and a gun in her hand dashed out of the restaurant just ahead of where the assaulted woman had been standing. Nor had he seen the barefoot black woman sprint from across the street with a gun in her hand and saying, “Aww, hell naw!” He also didn’t hear the women empty their high-capacity magazines into the bodies of four shocked, and now dead, top four criminals. It would be found later that the four predators had been responsible for at least three murders and thirty-two rapes and were suspects in a lot more.
When Dr. Anderson came to his senses, he knew it was time to get to work. No amount of police could stop these criminals. He put in a call to Chief King. “Chief, is my daughter’s killer still alive?”
“He’s having great difficulty breathing, but yeah, he’s still alive.”