by Knight, Dirk
Though this body is not as ripe as some he’s been in the proximity of, his olfactory is acutely attuned to the redolence of the deceased.
The thick, clear, polyethylene shower-curtain liner is tinged pink around the victim’s nose and mouth. His face is contorted from the blows he sustained. His eyes are propped open with the beginnings of rigor and emanate terror and confusion like a magic lantern running an 8-millimeter film, projected onto a cheaply manufactured rollout screen. Staley searches in himself to see what those eyes had seen. The terror and confusion had been brought on suddenly. There wasn’t time for a struggle; he’d been ambushed. There are no defensive wounds visible. Staley is sure the forensics team will not find any DNA under his nails. All the evidence is trapped in those eyes, behind a veil of horror.
“What did you see, old man?” he mutters to the laminated corpse.
“I think you’re gonna wanna see this, Carron,” Eleman says. “Besides, he ain’t talking.”
Silently, Staley says a little prayer for the dead and rises to his full stature, turning his gaze to Rodriguez and following him out of the bathroom.
A ton of bricks smashes through the mental barrier he’d put up; the façade that this wasn’t related to the Circle K, when he realizes this bathroom was not connected to the old man’s room, but instead to that of the road-rager, Jiménez. Whoever did this was in the house, in this room when the victim arrived home from the funeral. But Diaz didn’t see him, so he must’ve been hiding. Tracing a path in his mind, and carving out the journey with his gnarled left hand, from the john to the darkened closet door.
“Here,” he almost whispers.
Eleman, hearing his dampened words, springs to the door and pulls the twine that’s dangling from the porcelain fixture. The bulb explodes in dimness, and 60 watts of barely visible light slowly fill the dank closet, until the rays finally settle onto a small, ineffective gun safe, opened. Empty, except for one box of 9mm slugs, hollow point—same as the rounds they had dug out of the Acura and the wall of the Circle K, he was sure of it. Just below the safe, swimming in the overgrown shag carpeting, is a light brown, worn, leather holster for a snub-nosed revolver. His gut tells him it’s a .38. He is very familiar, his father had owned one, in fact, and it was the first handgun Carron had ever fired. The absent firearm is thoroughly outlined in the cowhide. Each crease and fold of the pistol reenacted through lighter and darker oiled shadows on the exterior of the holster.
“Looks like we have a stolen piece. Check to see if he had other guns registered.”
“Yeah, because he seems like the registering guns type.”
“Just make the inquiry.”
“I’m on it,” snaps Rodriguez. Then: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking you’re thinking?”
“That’s almost impossible to answer, knowing you, but I’m more than a little curious to hear an alibi from Foster, if that’s where you’re heading.”
“I knew you’d get your mind racing on this one,” he says then pauses briefly, “Maybe there’s something to it, but sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence. This is a shitty neighborhood, Jiménez’s SUV is still in impound, someone could’ve seen the old man leave, maybe the neighborhood is talking about the recent tragedy, they think the house is empty and go in for a quick peek around, and boom—the old man shows up to his own funeral.”
“There are no such things as coincidences, Rodriguez, and I suspect you don’t believe any of what you just said or you might have let me sleep for an hour or two. Maybe you’re right, but something tells me that Foster was a little too excited to be in custody. He seemed like he’d been waiting for a moment like that, where he could be bold and crass about stabbing a man, in front of homicide detectives, and walk away white as snow. Something tells me he enjoyed it. I don’t trust him. I’ve dealt with a lot of sick fucks in my career, and he fits the bill.”
“Yeah, I kinda got the same vibe, but I just figured he was grateful to be alive.”
“Listen, I’ve seen a lot of men die in order that I, or someone else, could live. When it happened to me, I was always grateful to be alive, hell I have even been thankful that I was the one who lived instead of them. I thought the world was a better place without them in it, but I’ve never seen anyone thrilled about having to kill someone, in order to live. Happy to be alive and happy to have killed are two different people, mi amigo, and Foster was happy to have killed.”
As soon as Carron utters the words, he thinks of his last case with the FBI.
Was he happy? He certainly hadn’t killed in self-defense, but was he happy about it? Carron wondered. He didn’t know anymore.
“More than that, there are black streaks on the linoleum in the bathroom,” Carron says.
“You’ll have to excuse me, but what exactly is that supposed to tell me?”
“Dress shoes sometimes have soft black soles; they’re designed for comfort and quiet, not necessarily for traction in physically challenging situations. When you twist or drag your sole, wearing these shoes, the soles leave black streaks, residue from the strain.”
“And you think that points to Foster?”
“You see any fucking fancy shoes around here?” Staley replied. “Even the old man is wearing sneakers. I doubt any of the neighborhood thugs would show up to a robbery in a pair of loafers; just doesn’t fit this part of town.”
Carron tracked the streaks into the kitchen and into the yard, where there were pits dug out in the gravel and ruts in the bushes. He found no physical evidence, other than the streaks, and he’d need a damn good reason to go to the DA for a warrant on the circumstantial evidence . . . truth is all kinds of shoes left black streaks, even cheap mega-store knock-offs, but he had noticed a swath of them traced out under the desk when he’d interrogated Dennis. Why he doesn’t mention this “coincidence” to his partner is beyond him. He guesses he just misses Bill, who had trusted Carron’s gut as much as if they were his own hunches, instead of questioning and making light of his instincts.
Sometimes all a dick’s got are his hunches, he thinks, wondering why that isn’t good enough for Eleman.
If there is one thing he’s learned to watch out for, and spot, since he meeting Karl, it is the unaffected believer. The person who seeks to carry out a message, or live in some kind of realm beyond reality, following a doctrine of faith and carrying out acts according to these beliefs. He has no empirical reason to believe that Dennis Foster is a true believer in something beyond the law, but the glimpse he’d gotten into the man’s soul, as he needlessly confessed to every detail of Hector Jiménez’s death, was enough to set his radar off in a big way.
“God rest your soul, old man,” he says as he fires up the big block V-8 and motors away from the scene.
Puttin’ on the Ritz
A frosty mug filled with amber beer lay before him, dripping condensation into a salt-coated bar napkin when his phone chirps.
It’s Whesker.
“You’re sure she’s gone?” he asks.
—
“Uh huh, and you followed her till she left?”
—
“Seriously, thank you. I know it’s not your job to run women out of my house, but I just felt like she was going to raise a lot of red flags and if that detective showed back up at my place: who knows?”
Dennis is dying to tell him about the redhead in his basement, dying to tell someone, and he feels he can trust Whesker.
I’m gonna have to trust him eventually. God knows I am not gonna get away with this, he thinks.
Jiménez shakes his head disapprovingly. “Not the right time,” he whispers into Dennis’s available ear. “Besides, you know he fucked her.”
As if he were suddenly deep under the surface of a lake, Dennis hears nothing else in the bar, or on the phone. His attention is only concerned with his swarming thoughts as he flashes on Jiménez’s accusations. Life is muted while the words hit him.
You know he fucked her.
“H
ow do you know that?”
“Because while you were in the shower I texted the bitch and told her to,” he blurts, then laughs.
Dennis returns to the surface, and the call.
“Hey Larry, thanks for your help. I gotta run.” And he puts away his cell.
“Order me a beer, would ya?” Jiménez asks.
“Fuck you,” Dennis says, but is all the while smiling at his new friend. He’s becoming fonder of him with each passing moment. Jiménez arranged the lawyers pop in to spoon-feed infidelity to Dennis’s fractured relationship. Jiménez’s advice to hedge his bets, and prevent the evening’s plans from spilling any further into the public domain (i.e. his slime ball attorney) was another reason to appreciate the concocted compatriot. It was risky enough leaving the highway slut there with his mother. No need to implicate himself before he’d gotten a full head of steam.
Speaking of head, he thinks, I wonder if I could get my cock into her mouth without losing it.
“So, what’s the plan for tonight, Dennis? I know you got something cooking in that fucked up rapist brain of yours.”
“I like it when people get raped. It shows them they aren’t in control. And sometimes it teaches them not to fucking wear shit that makes people want to fuck them. If you ask me, girls should know; if you don’t tease a guy’s cock, then you won’t have to tell your boyfriend that you don’t know why dudes are constantly asking for your number, or better yet, wind up nursing a broken vagina in an E.R. because someone took what you dangled.”
Then he starts to outline it for his imaginary partner in crime. Every slippery detail.
“You need to keep your eyes diverted. Don’t follow one person for too long. It’s okay to have a wandering eye in a bar, especially when you’re alone. Everyone ‘people watches’ at some point. But, we need to make sure we are the observers. Keep a lookout for anyone that is tracking us or who flashes on us staring at them. If we get caught creeping on a target it will raise suspicions; you don’t want to get noticed.”
“Teach me, ‘Grasshopper,’” he says, but Dennis doesn’t break stride.
“I’ve already picked out the girl over there in the black dress. I like this part, because it is amazing what people do when they think no one is watching. Ted Bundy used to follow women home. He’d tail them on the way home from the bar. He’d work up the courage to get closer and closer until BANG; he finally crossed a line somewhere in his brain and decided to take it to the next level.”
Jiménez looks over his shoulder and takes her in, hungry to learn about her, in every detail. She looks tired and somewhat disappointed sitting there alone on that frigid Arizona night. From where he observes, it becomes apparent that she is plagued by avarice for expensive margaritas and cheap jewelry. The biggest of brown eyes are wandering around the room, searching out someone or something. Dennis thinks that she is hoping that someone is stalking her. Wanting to be the orchid, dying to be plucked from her barstool. The dress she is wearing is far too revealing and negligible considering the temperature. He knows she has no self-respect, and he will be happy to treat her as such, if he can get her alone.
Isn’t tonight your lucky night, bitch, he thinks. Like every woman in Dennis’s life, she wants to be hunted. Surely, she must have enough money to buy her own drinks, but where is the fun in that? She’d assumed that she was paying for her drinks in skin when she stuffed herself into the skimpy dress on a December night. She’d flaunt her tight ass and firm early-twenties tits at pathetic sons of bitches and walk out drunk with every dime she’d walked in with.
Whore.
Her slender fingers are fidgeting with the straw in her chalice. He decides to call her Vicki; that seems just about trashy enough for this barfly bimbo. As he comes to this conclusion, a dense plume of pungent smoke rolls past his head and wafts into her long, caramel colored hair before dissipating into the crowd of nobodies behind her.
Someone will be asked to leave soon; there’s no smoking in here, Dennis thinks. He looks to see that the smoker is Jiménez. Lucky stiff. Now suddenly he is overcome with the desire for the sweet biting sensation of a cigarette.
And now here they are, enamored by her beauty, and Dennis is caught, red-faced, staring at the would-be Vicki. She and he lock eyes for a brief moment, and before he is able to break away, he draws upon an incredible loneliness in her face. She seems to smile at nearly everyone that passes. Evidence suggests that she would love nothing more than for someone, anyone, to come and sit with her. She smiles and adjusts herself in the seat. Dennis looks to Jiménez as if to say, today may be my lucky day too. This is when a wall of a man steps from behind Dennis and her eyes continue to track the big fella.
“She wasn’t looking at you, puta,” Jiménez says, followed by a bout of unabashed laughter. Dennis cannot believe the juvenile embarrassment that washes over him, like he’s caught with his first boner poking through his pants in middle school and all the cheerleaders are pointing and laughing.
It is troubling that she saw Dennis staring at her, since she seemed so lonely for companionship yet hadn’t shown any signs of interest. Maybe it isn’t a big deal. She is stunning, and he was just an older man in a college bar, after all. But more likely, she was looking at him thinking he is a limp-dick faggot who never had a shot. She probably thinks he couldn’t get it up, or that his prick would be so small she’d fall asleep during. That was the problem with pretty girls; they all loved the big cocks. Why else would they be done up so pretty if not to hunt the BIG COCK? No woman he’s ever met, paid for a slinky dress and then spent hours in front of the mirror primping and prepping, waxing their pussies and bleaching their assholes, so that they could take a tiny-dicked fat-ass home for a fucking they wouldn’t feel unless he put his weight on her hair extensions. She’s just like the rest of them, he’s sure of it. He imagines breaking her nose, and the sounds of her gasping for air after he punches her in the solar plexus.
Now she sees him staring, how could she miss it? He has a look of disheveled menace and he is tracking her like food.
“Cut it out, mijo. Didn’t you just tell me not to get caught creeping? You need to calm down,” Jiménez says and offers him a cigarette, which he takes gladly, turning back to his beer and away from the broad. The tangy sweet-hot smoke is fulfilling. He rarely smokes, but loves it so.
“Maybe you should just go over there and ask her if you can put a hotdog in her hallway,” Jiménez prods further.
Dennis isn’t alone in his lustful gaze. Every man who passed had offered a smile or a wink to the fair damsel in that dress, yet nary had mustered the courage to take anything from her, besides her drink order. It seems none had the confidence to risk, or overcome rejection from the orchid of the pool pub. Someone as exotic as this “Vicki” is surely not so shy, maybe old fashioned though. It seems her beauty has intimidated the men of the pub because no one has the grit to make a move on Vicki, the flower. He certainly didn’t after receiving her cold stare, and being caught wide-jawed drooling.
“Excuse me sir, you can’t smoke in here!”
“Oh, shit sorry,” and he drops the lit butt into his beer glass. The bartender shoots him a quick “fuck you” glance and pulls away the mug.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. Long day I guess.”
He pulls out another twenty and sets it on the counter, “I’ll have another beer, please.”
The bartender only looks at him, contemplating. Dennis pulls out another twenty, stacks it with the first, and says, “Keep the change.”
“It was Amber Bock, right sir?”
Dennis nods. Fucking, sir. Little shit.
Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he realizes his mistake in presumption. The thick, muscular man to his right, the one who she was staring at, looks down to Dennis with disgust. The brawny oaf takes a set of margaritas from the barkeep and goes confidently to join his “Vicki.”
Now annoyed, as well as embarrassed, Dennis looks back to the bowl of germ-riddl
ed bar peanuts in front of him and motions to the bartender for a shot of tequila to go with his amber lager.
“Couple of fingers.”
His aggravation is disrupted by Jiménez’s stare, which pierces through his brief rage and forces a chuckle out of him. It was a look that said “come on, you didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” But for a moment there, he had, actually.
It doesn’t matter. He isn’t here tonight to creep on anyone. He has no need to stalk another. He needs to blow off some steam and get away from Carla for a little while. She always manages to bring him down. No matter how much he does to make her proud it’s just never enough, and she has always made him feel like a little sissy boy.
He’s felt this way his whole life. How was I supposed to have a fucking childhood? he wonders. It doesn’t matter. She will be gone soon, and he has his new pet at home, awaiting his return.
She will bring him joy.
She will play the role of his filthy Vicki tonight and he will not let some jock cock-block him. He will take what she only wants him to imagine.
He continues to drink, converses silently with Jiménez, and let seconds turn into minutes, killing time before returning to face his belligerent mother.
He makes notice of the girl in the black dress pointing him out to her brick-house companion (who nods with understanding), as he looks over to their table repeatedly, inadvertently, consuming himself with the embarrassment that he’d felt.
The finger pointing and nodding destroy his illusion that no one else had paid any attention to his less than innocuous gazes.
He catches the man eying him back, and looks away, feeling uncomfortable being the object of his attentions.
The first goal of tonight was to not be noticed, a fact Jiménez already rubbed in his face, but more than a few people have labeled him in the past few minutes. Besides, he can’t stop staring, now hungry to know what they’re saying about him.
His next glance back to see Vicki’s tits squeezing out the top of her dress, like a pan of bread that has risen over the edge, proves fruitless and the Sasquatch of a man fills his entire line of sight as he approaches Dennis.