A Life Removed

by Jason Parent

  He stayed on the porch. “Where’s my stuff?”

  “It’s right there on the counter,” Carter said, waving a hand. “Craig, you’re a mess, and your feet may need medical attention. Why don’t you get cleaned up so we can see the extent of the damage.”

  “I wouldn’t need medical attention if it weren’t for you three douchebags.”

  “Okay, we deserve that.”

  “You’re damn right you do. Step back and let me grab my stuff. I’m leaving.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll get it for you,” Carter said. “Blood and mud aren’t easy to clean off the rug.”

  “Fine. Just get me my crap. My cell phone should be over there, too.”

  Carter walked to the kitchen counter and picked up Craig’s gym bag. With his other hand, he scooped up the phone, wallet, and keys next to it. He strode back to the doorway. “Here you go,” Carter said, handing the gym bag to Craig. “And the rest of your stuff.”

  Holding his bag in his right hand, Craig reached out with his left to grab his other items. Just as his keys were dropped into his hand, an excruciating pain shot through his left leg. He screamed and collapsed to the ground.

  Carter had delivered a kick to Craig’s kneecap. Craig tried to sit up, but all he could do was lie there, crying. His leg was shaped like a boomerang, bending in the wrong direction.

  Carter took a step and sent another kick to Craig’s ribcage. “That’s for my wall.” He turned to Ricardo and Doug. “Drag him into the garage. I need to clean up this mess. I mean, look at this doorstep. He tracked mud everywhere. He’s not a very courteous houseguest, if you ask me.”

  Doug and Ricardo each grabbed Craig by an arm. He squealed as they dragged him, but he was in too much pain to put up any real struggle.

  “We’re doing this for your sake,” Ricardo whispered. “You’ll see. One day, you’ll thank us.”

  Craig stared at the blurry ceiling. He couldn’t see where they were taking him. But when he heard a vehicle door slide open, he cursed himself for missing the detail that could have saved him.

  Oh God! He wasn’t painting furniture. He was painting the fucking van! Panic jumbled his thoughts. Breathing became difficult. At last, the meaning became clear. Bile rose in his throat. He convulsed and threw up all over his chest.

  As Ricardo and Doug hoisted him into the back of the van, Carter appeared behind them. His sinister smile had returned.

  Give me one chance, and I’ll rip that fucking smile right off your face, you son of a bitch, Craig wanted to say, but what came out sounded like a drunken slur. He tried to stay awake but only drifted closer to unconsciousness.

  “Are we ready to go?” Doug asked.

  “Not just yet,” Carter said. “I still need to switch the plates. Once I’m done with that, you two go on ahead. I’ll meet you there in a couple of hours.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Detective Marklin’s stare bored holes in the back of Aaron’s skull as he typed up a report. He cringed each time he made a typo, which was often with Marklin hovering over him like a prison rapist.

  “Any update?” Marklin asked.

  “We’re working on it,” Aaron said. And we’d probably go a lot faster without you breathing down our necks.

  “It’s been four hours.”

  “It’s the weekend. He could be anywhere. We have someone watching the house and an APB out on the van. No one has reported in with anything.”

  “Well, time’s being wasted. If this guy is our killer, he’s due for another murder. Every second could matter.”

  Aaron hated being forced to work directly with his overbearing superior. Marklin had a point, but only if Doug was, in fact, the killer. He wondered what he’d said that could have given the detective that impression. He’d tried to dissuade Marklin from following up on his hunch. But Marklin wouldn’t be swayed. Aaron needed evidence to prove him wrong.

  So much for innocent until proven guilty. Doug was like a big teddy bear. In fact, he was kind of a sissy. From what Aaron had seen, Doug’s wife had his balls locked up so tight, he couldn’t piss without her say-so. He can’t be the monster we’re looking for.

  But Aaron had to concede that he didn’t really know Doug. They’d spent time together on many occasions, but they weren’t exactly close. Their pseudo-relationship was a by-product of their separate friendships with Ricardo. Aaron knew Ricardo well, though, and he’d always vouched for Doug. There’s just no way Rick is friends with a serial killer. He’s blind, but not stupid. He would have noticed something strange by now and mentioned it to me.

  Marklin had disagreed, saying something about serial killers hiding in plain sight, always trying to look normal… or some other bullshit. Aaron hadn’t really been listening. What he thought didn’t matter. Marklin was calling the shots, and Aaron was forced to assist. Marklin wanted immediate answers to questions Aaron couldn’t answer, which only fueled his superior’s impatience and irritability.

  He’s probably still mad about that whole blanket incident. Aaron recalled how Eliza Ramirez had been strewn across the garbage, discarded like the rest of the filth. The blanket was the least he could have done for her. He hoped Ricardo never found out about their investigation.

  Marklin jabbed a finger at him. “Get a few more officers involved. This is priority one. You’re on point for the time being, until you screw up. I want Fournier’s phone records checked. I want to see his credit card statements. I want his trash examined for receipts, disposable phones, odd-shaped garden tools, duct tape, women’s underwear… anything, I don’t care. Just get it done.”

  Even if Doug was the killer, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to buy his murder weapon on eBay with his MasterCard. Aaron rolled his eyes. “Do we have a search warrant for any of this?”

  “Do whatever you have to do. Let me worry about the necessary warrants. He’s your friend, isn’t he? Invite yourself over and snoop around. Be a damn police officer, for God’s sake. Did you even try calling him yet?”

  “I don’t have his number. He’s more of a friend of a friend.”

  “So call your friend and ask him for Fournier’s number. Make up some bullshit reason to meet him, then do some investigating. This shouldn’t be so difficult.”

  I’m not completely stupid, thanks. “I already tried calling my friend.” Aaron wasn’t lying. He had tried calling Ricardo earlier, albeit on other matters, but Marklin didn’t need to know that. “He’s not answering. I left him a message to call me back. And no, I didn’t tell him why I was calling.” Aaron thought about Ricardo and Doug and their silly Bible studies, sitting around and singing “Kumbaya,” praising some immaterial apostle and drinking Kool-Aid while… “Oh shit! I know exactly where they are.”

  “Better late than never, I suppose.” Marklin raised one eyebrow. “Care to share?”

  “Doug should be at this guy Carter’s house. They were going to work out or something. Carter teaches martial arts.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” For a second, Marklin looked as though he might smile. The second passed. “What’s Carter’s last name?” he asked gruffly.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Okay. Where does he live?”

  “Don’t know that, either.”

  Marklin’s scowl returned.

  Aaron tried to come up with something helpful. “Carter teaches judo or aikido or some other O in Somerset. I think it’s the only dojo in town. If he’s incorporated, I can look him up on the Internet. We could find his address that way.”

  “All right, get on it. I want an answer in two minutes. I’ll grab my jacket.” Marklin hurried off down the hallway, peeking through doorways and getting everyone’s nerves up. The detective might have even gone into the women’s restroom.

  Aaron turned his attention to his computer. He found the dojo. The business was incorporated, and Carter
had listed himself as its registered agent, complete with a Rehoboth mailing address.

  Marklin returned. “Damn! Where’s Detective Beaudette when I need her?” He frowned at Aaron. “Looks like you’re my backup. If you know where we’re going, let’s go.”

  Bruce and Officer Pimental followed Officer Pamela Stevens, their liaison with the Rehoboth Police Department, to Carter Wainwright’s secluded home. Bruce felt a little out of his skin. Rehoboth’s farms and forests contrasted starkly with the city. At least in the slums of Fall River, he knew what to expect. In that rural seclusion, unseen by the rest of the world, anything could be hiding. He no longer had home-field advantage.

  Pimental sat beside him in silence, looking as if he’d just swallowed coffee someone had pissed in. Bruce wasn’t the least bit concerned how his investigation might impact the officer’s personal life. He didn’t care if the suspect was Pimental’s college roommate, best friend, or even his father. The job, as it always had, came first.

  When Bruce and Pimental arrived, Officer Stevens met them on the driveway and led them up the steep slope to the front door. She stepped aside and allowed Pimental to ring the bell.

  A moment later, a man in a black T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms opened the door. He flashed a million-dollar smile. “Hello, Officers. What can I do for you?” He did a double take when he spotted Officer Pimental. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Officer Aaron Pimental with the Fall River Police Department, and I’m a good friend of Ricardo Jimenez. We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

  Bruce watched for signs of recognition in Pimental’s face. If he knew Wainwright or even thought he might know him, Pimental did a fine job of hiding it.

  “Sure thing, Aaron,” Wainwright said. “Is it all right if I call you that? I feel like I already know you from all of the pictures Ricardo has at his house. You’ve known him for a long time?”

  “Aaron’s fine, and yes, Ricardo and I have been friends for many years.”

  Bruce coughed, hoping Pimental would take the hint and introduce him. He felt foolish standing there in silence as his officer and a potential witness carried on meaningless chitchat.

  Pimental turned. “This is Officer Pamela Stevens and Detective Bruce Marklin. Detective Marklin leads—”

  “Hello, Mr. Wainwright,” Bruce interrupted, nudging his officer aside. “Do you know Douglas Fournier?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s a student of mine. Why do you ask? Is he okay?”

  “Do you know where we might find him?”

  “I’m afraid not. He and a few others were supposed to be here hours ago. I’ve tried calling them, but so far, there’s been no answer. I figured something came up. Is everything all right?” Wainwright’s concern seemed genuine.

  “There’s no need to worry,” Pimental said. “We just want to talk to Doug.”

  With a look that would have made Hercules cower, Bruce said, “Stand down, Pimental.” He wouldn’t normally belittle an officer in front of a civilian or even another officer, but he needed to be the one to do the talking. Bruce turned back to Wainwright. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t know, probably Tuesday at class. I teach jiu-jitsu a few nights a week in Somerset.” Wainwright’s brow wrinkled. “What’s this all about, Detective? I can’t imagine that Doug would be in some kind of trouble with the law.”

  “We can’t discuss that. Your cooperation, however, is appreciated. Does Doug have a van?”

  “Well, I don’t think he owns one, but he sometimes drives one for work.”

  Bruce noticed that while they talked, Wainwright stayed framed in the doorway, effectively blocking any view inside. Bruce had made it a rule that whenever a witness or suspect tried to stop him from doing something, he would insist on doing it. “Do you mind if we come in?”

  “Not at all. Mi casa, su casa.” Wainwright stepped aside.

  Bruce nodded and led the other two officers into the foyer, which opened up into a sparsely but finely decorated living room. A white leather sofa and love seat stood on a pristine snow-white carpet. A crackling fireplace radiated warmth. Paintings that looked pricey splashed the walls with vibrant colors—reds and golds and oranges, a motionless inferno. The life they gave to the home seemed fabricated, false. The room reflected taste and refinement, but something else Bruce couldn’t put his finger on. Something that made him shiver.

  Wainwright smiled, an expression that also seemed fabricated. “Please, have a seat.” He ushered them over to the couch. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Pimental and Stevens sat, but Bruce remained standing.

  “We won’t take up too much more of your time,” he said.

  “Carter, you coming back to bed?” a woman called from deeper in the house.

  Wainwright’s face turned a pinkish hue from either anger or embarrassment. “Not just yet. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Who’s that?” Bruce asked. “Caught you at a bad time, have we?”

  “My girlfriend. We were—”

  “Say no more.” Bruce had no interest in Wainwright’s love life. Bruce had inventoried the entire room within seconds of entering. He could recall every item’s placement with his eyes closed. His focus lingered on an oil canvas. “Do you know what that painting depicts?”

  “Of course,” Wainwright replied. “I bought it.”

  Bruce played dumb. “It’s quite impressive. The use of color contrast and lighting is striking. What civilization does it represent?”

  “How well do you know your Mesoamerican history, Detective?”

  “How far back are we talking?” With thumb and forefinger on his chin, Bruce pretended to study the painting. “It looks maybe Mayan or Aztec.”

  “Quite right, Detective. The painting portrays the clash of two civilizations. More accurately, it shows the rise of one civilization and the fall of another and, with it, the end of the age of Mesoamerican gods.” He pointed at a man dressed in sixteenth-century Spanish armor, sword in hand, climbing the ancient temple’s steps. “That’s Cortez, the conquistador credited with the downfall of the Aztec civilization. At the top of the temple is the last Aztec king, Moctezuma, painted in red: blood. The once-mighty king never understood Cortez’s true intentions until it was too late. He makes his final stand on one of the twin temples, either Uitzilopoichtli or Tlaloc, where Mexico City is today.”

  “Wasn’t that temple used for human sacrifice?” Bruce asked.

  “It was. Aztec priests would open the chests of their victims with a stone knife and tear the hearts from their bodies.” Wainwright’s voice thrummed with too much enthusiasm. “They would raise the heart high, steaming it in the hot sun, an offering to Quetzalcoatl, their sun god. The steam represented the victim’s life force, his soul more or less, set free to rise to the heavens. They believed that cosmic order could only be achieved through sacrifice and death. Chaos bred chaos in cyclic fashion, until in the end, the entire civilization was lost.”

  “Don’t you mean slaughtered?” Officer Stevens asked. “If you ask me, the Spaniards did the world a favor by ridding it of those bloodthirsty murderers.”

  Wainwright shrugged. “Your point is well taken, but who are we to judge? Perhaps history merely did what it always does: substituted one evil for another. After all, the Spaniards were slaughtering entire races for gold in Mesoamerica, while torturing and killing in the name of Christianity through the Inquisition back home. To me, the painting serves as a constant reminder that no matter who we are or where we’re from, we all have evil in our hearts that we must face and conquer. It’s easy to recognize the darkness in others, but not so the darkness within ourselves.”

  “Well said.” Bruce meant it. Despite all the red flags being waved in his face, he couldn’t help but think he’d found a kindred spirit. “Pe
ople say that change is the only constant. I believe there’s another constant in this crazy world of ours: human nature. Humanity is the coldest of words. Its definition is at odds with our true nature—selfish, groveling, and pathetically immoral. As you might imagine, I see the depravity in humanity every day in my line of work. It will never change.”

  “Well, there are good people and bad people wherever you go.” Wainwright chuckled. “But the reality is: I just like the painting and watch way too much History Channel. They have a special on Sparta this weekend that I’m dying to see. I’ll probably have a painting of that by the end of next week.”

  “I don’t suppose you practice human sacrifice in the name of your god?” Bruce had intended the joke to provoke a reaction. But if it had any effect on Wainwright, he couldn’t spot it.

  “I’ve never even so much as taken communion. Eating the body of Christ is kind of creepy, don’t you think?”

  “I take it you’re not Catholic then?”

  “Nope. No organized religion for me. It’s just a means to control the masses. I’m sorry, but it’s not for me.”

  “But aren’t you part of Ricardo’s Bible studies?” Pimental asked.

  “I don’t support organized religion. I didn’t say I wasn’t religious.”

  “That’s ironic,” Officer Stevens said. “The guy who owned this house before you was some kind of Liberian evangelist. He might have brought down the wrath of God on you if he’d heard you say that.” She laughed. “Quite the character, he was.”

  Wainwright chuckled. “I don’t know much about the previous owners. They did seem kind of… rigid, though. I doubt they would have approved of the addition I made to their house.”

  A man after my own heart. Bruce studied his host closely. Educated and cynical. Still, the man raises too many suspicions. He wondered how much more of the house Wainwright would let him see. “Now that you mention it,” Bruce said, “I couldn’t help but notice that unique structure. Is it some sort of pagoda?”