Wrong Chance

by E. L. Myrieckes

  “I got a little something-something put together,” she said, straddling the motorcycle. “It’s a preliminary profile based on the information we have.”

  Hakeem said nothing. Translation: Drop it on him.

  “Definitely a male, white. More than likely he’s in his early to mid-thirties. We can reasonably conclude that he’s very detailed-oriented from the mastery of the hieroglyphics. He’s antisocial and shuns public attention. That’s why he keeps things personal between himself and the police, flaunting his intelligence by writing on the victims in brilliant codes instead of sending simple letters to the press. He’s an egocentric who’s prone to boredom and wields superficial charm. He spends a lot of his private time thinking, planning, which is why he hasn’t been caught. According to Mr. Doe, the Hieroglyphic Hacker isn’t sexually motivated, so he’s a sadistic murderer, who lacks remorse, which probably means his choice of music ranges from rock to heavy metal. The sadistic nature of his murders suggest his aim is to inflict the pain on his victim that he feels himself. A transference. A punishment. It’s like he’s saying, ‘see how it feels.’ And now we know he’s been educated in the medical field.”

  “I wanna know what it is and what Mr. Doe told him.” He fell silent until his Palm Treo rang.

  “Communicate.”

  “Detective Eubanks, Tony Adams here.” Tony was the head crime scene technician.

  “What you got for me, Tony?” Hakeem said, watching Aspen pucker her pouty lips in the motorcycle’s mirror and gloss them. She had no idea how much of a distraction she was.

  “The shoe prints were made by a Vans sneaker, size nine. The distance in the stride between the left and the right shoe prints makes the killer approximately five-nine, five-ten inches tall.”

  “Assuming our unsub made the prints.” Hakeem never validated a point without conclusive proof.

  “Yes, assuming.”

  “Give me some good news on the latents.”

  “We’re still running them, Detective Eubanks.” Tony sounded disappointed. “There are hundreds of them. Probably every Jew in Cleveland Heights has a set of prints in that place. The ones I can positively identify right now are Mr. and Mrs. Williams’, which were located in the appropriate areas consistent with their job description.”

  And their story, Hakeem thought. “Thanks, Tony. Call me when you get anything.”

  “Okay, Detective Eubanks.”

  “Anything, Tony. I don’t care how small. I wanna nail this guy.” Hakeem ended the call and the phone rang right back. “Communicate.”

  “Marcus Jefferson didn’t make it,” Sergeant Morris said. “Died twenty minutes ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir. I know the two of you were friends.”

  Aspen mouthed the word Jefferson? And Hakeem nodded.

  “Be in the Homicide Unit by two,” Sergeant Morris said. “Since you yapped your gums, the mayor, chief, and the ACP are trying their hand at damage control with a press conference this evening. You and Aspen need to brief them.”

  “Okay, Sergeant. See you later.” Hakeem hung up, then filled Aspen in.

  Aspen said, “Scenario Davenport is worried. With Marcus gone, she ultimately knows that this case will be up to her when we bring this guy in.”

  “You sound sure of yourself.”

  “I’m an optimist. Davenport wants to be briefed to test the legality of what we have.”

  “Which is nothing but a preliminary profile.”

  Aspen smiled. “It’s a start. I’m going to the station and have Tony run Mr. Doe’s prints. And I have a hunch I want to follow.”

  “A hunch?”

  “Yeah, I’ll hip you on later.”

  “While you’re doing that,” Hakeem said, “I’ll check out the Williamses’ story, then I’ll go pay an old friend a visit.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Anderson smiled his bucked-and gapped-tooth smile. “My friends are a little thrown off like everyone else, but they’re cool. Jazz, you’ll like them. Trust me,” he said as they walked the narrow dormitory hallway toward Apartment 619. “While I take my insulin, you make yourself comfortable.”

  “You don’t know how happy I am to finally be away from the country. I swear to God the State of Maryland doesn’t ever have to worry about Jazz Smith again.” Jazz was a slender beauty, all legs and charisma. By all definitions, she was considered a dainty dime. She wore a pair of Guess jeans like a second layer of skin and a girly sweater under a fly leather coat. She stepped with confidence in a trendy pair of boots and a Baltimore Ravens skull cap.

  “Sell one of your manuscripts and you can live anywhere in the world you want.”

  “Think I really have what it takes to make it as an author?”

  “Lil’ cousin, you’re gonna be a New York Times bestseller. They’re gonna study your works in prestigious universities like they do Tolstoy, Hemingway, Dickens, and Dumas.”

  “That would really be something.” She turned up the corners of her mouth into a gorgeous smile.

  When they rounded the corner, the door of Apartment 619 was wide open. They entered as Yancee was saying, “That’s not a good idea. If he finds out—”

  “What’s not a good idea?” Anderson said to his friends.

  Yancee and Leon looked up. Jazz and Leon locked gazes, communicating something that only they understood.

  Yancee was pissed. He said, “This fool wants to set Chance up with a girl who’s kinda like a hermaphrodite. All for laughs because he’s still hurt about Sahara.”

  “There isn’t such a thing as a hermaphrodite,” Anderson said. “It’s a purely mythical creature from ancient literature. It was said to have a completely functional set of…It was supposed to have a dick and a pussy.”

  “Yeah,” Jazz said, “the medical community adopted the fictional term ‘hermaphrodite’ to describe a condition where a female has an abnormally large clitoris.”

  “I don’t know anything about any of that.” Yancee passed Jazz the article. “This is what I’m talking about.”

  “Excuse me for being rude,” Anderson said. “This is my cousin Jazz Smith from Maryland. She’s going to school here now. And you guys are looking at a world-famous author in the making.”

  Jazz blushed. “Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “I’m Yancee.” He shook her tiny hand. “And this fool looking at you all goofy is Leon.”

  Leon took her hand and held on to it, sensing a weakness within her. “Nice to meet you.” He looked at her with disgust. “I would be honored to show you around campus.”

  Jazz blushed, mistaking Leon’s gaze of disrespect for admiration. “I’d like that.”

  “No way, Jose.” Anderson injected himself in the thigh with a dose of insulin. “She’s my first cousin, Leon.”

  “But I’m not your little cousin anymore, Anderson. I’m a grown woman.”

  “Say no more.” Leon squeezed her hand harder than necessary, then reluctantly let it go, not convinced that he had established his dominance.

  Jazz read the article aloud, getting comfortable with the group. When she finished, she closed the magazine. “Never heard of this.”

  “Me neither,” Anderson said, looking at the cover of the magazine. “I’m in total agreement with Yancee. Hooking Chance up with someone like this is not a good idea, Leon. Did you forget that we all got a gay-bashing conviction because Chance started that fight in Best Steak House last semester?”

  “It’s none of my business, Leon,” Jazz said. “But you shouldn’t play that type of trick on a person, especially someone who’s averse to gays. Somebody could get hurt like that guy did on the Jenny Jones Show.”

  “Talk some sense into him then,” Yancee said. “Keep that up and you’re gonna fit right in.”

  Leon said, “She-slash-he isn’t gay, though.” Pissed that Jazz had challenged him.

  Yancee shook his head and tightened his jaw. “That’s not the point.”

  “I swear AIS is some
top-secret stuff. I’ve never heard of it,” Anderson said. “What does someone look like who has it?”

  “You know the girl this article is talking about,” Yancee said.

  “No, I don’t.” Anderson emphatically made that statement like he would be ashamed if he did know her.

  “The bea— Whoa, I almost said beautiful, but that doesn’t sound right anymore,” Yancee said. “It’s Cash, that reclusive girl who works in the school bookstore.”

  Anderson’s brows lifted. “Stop playing. She’s probably the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen.”

  Leon nodded, proud of himself. “And she-slash-he has a Valentine’s date that ends with a tongue kiss with Chance. Bought and paid for. I’m gonna laugh my ass off and record the whole kiss part. Chance is finally gonna get what he has coming to him for sleeping with and stealing people’s girls.”

  “Chance is a little off. Like needs medication off, if you somehow haven’t noticed.” Anderson stared at Euclid Avenue from the window. “He might pull a Jenny Jones if he finds out. No matter how you slice it, Leon, Chance will think that going out with Cash and kissing her is a homosexual act.”

  “You sound like you’re gonna snitch on me.” Leon gave Anderson a hard stare.

  “I don’t have a thing to do with it. Now I wish I didn’t know.”

  Leon turned his ominous gaze on Yancee. “What about you, champ?”

  “It’s your world, Leon; it’s all on you. And even if I were so happenly to laugh at the situation, which I might, that doesn’t mean I condone your bullshit. So don’t misinterpret nothing.”

  “Before you even look at me,” Jazz said. “I told you once already that it ain’t my business. I don’t know this Chance dude or y’all. But I do think this AIS business is an interesting subject matter to research and write about. Leon, think you can introduce me to Cash?”

  “Sure, but she doesn’t know we know her secret.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  “Dude, don’t confuse my willingness to postpone your death sentence with compassion. I didn’t give you permission to stop running your fucking mouth.”

  “It’s my sugar, Chance,” Anderson said, sweat spilling off him. “I need my insulin.”

  Chance thought about that for a long while. “Where is it, shithead?”

  “In my tote bag hanging there.” Anderson pointed to a wall-mounted coat rack near the door.

  After looking across the room at the tote, Chance focused back on Anderson. “Move that turd cutter of yours an inch and you’re gonna be in humongous trouble.” Chance went to the tote bag and swapped Anderson’s syringe with the one he brought in his murder kit.

  Then two things happened: some illiterate asswipe knocked on the door and Anderson screamed for help like a bitch. Chance was fucked.

  • • •

  By 9:15 a.m. Detective Aspen Skye had dropped off John Doe’s fingerprints to be run through the system. When she entered the cool ambience of the Homicide Unit, she walked in on the tail end of a conversation between the notorious male chauvinist Detective Omar Madison and Tony Adams. There was no doubt in Aspen’s mind that Madison was trying to proselytize Tony Adams to his fucked-up views about women.

  “See, Adams, there’s absolutely nothing like it,” Detective Madison said, gnawing on an imitation Havana. “But the irony about a decent blow job is that you’ve got the chick on her knees where she’s supposed to be, submitting to you, but she’s got you by the balls.”

  Madison’s pseudo-Havana made Aspen crave a cigarette, but she headed to the coffee maker for a fix instead. “Madison, why don’t you tell Tony how magnificent women like me have super powers.”

  “You wish you had super powers, Skye. You wish women had any real power at all,” Detective Madison said as if Aspen was way out of line for opening her mouth and butting in without an invite.

  “Trust me, Madison, I do have super powers. I can get soaking wet any time I want to without water. I can bleed without being cut. I can make boneless meat hard as a rock, and I can make you eat without cooking whenever the fuck I feel like it.” She saw Madison’s eyes light up as if he were thinking something lewd. “Tony, the victim’s prints are on your desk. Get me something on them soon.”

  She felt the men watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.

  “Yup, she has super powers,” Tony said.

  Aspen settled in behind her desk and turned on the computer. She began by checking her email account, then she made a call to Monticello Junior High School, who transferred her to the Cleveland Heights Board of Education.

  “Board of Education, how may I direct your call?”

  “Records.” She sipped her coffee hoping it satisfied her jones.

  “Hold please.” After a few aggravating minutes of bullshit phone music, a male voice said, “Records, Brendyn Harris speaking.”

  Aspen heard the youthfulness of his voice and figured that Brendyn wasn’t older than twenty-one. “Brendyn, this is Detective Aspen Skye with the Cleveland Police Department.”

  Brendyn was quiet for way too long. “Ah.” He fumbled again. “Ah…how can I help you, Detective?”

  Aspen was very intuitive. She peeped Brendyn’s apprehension. He must have, for some reason, figured that this call was in direct relation to him. So you’re a bad boy, Aspen thought. “I’m investigating a murder and I’m wondering if you can help me compile a list of names. Male students who attended Monticello during the years of—” She did a quick calculation of the years the killer would have been in junior high based on her profile. “—ninety-two through ninety-five.”

  Brendyn let out a deep breath. “That has to be a huge list.” He sounded so relieved.

  I wonder what you’re hiding, Brendyn, Aspen thought. “I can narrow it.”

  “How so?”

  “Only the males who lived between Cain Park and Euclid Heights Boulevard, roughly a twenty-block radius.”

  “That simplifies things, but I’ll have to check with my supervisor and he won’t be in until Monday.”

  “Brendyn, did you read the headlines this morning?”

  “No, ma’am. But I know what you’re talking about. Everybody is worrying about it.”

  “Then we don’t have time for the mumbo jumbo. I’m not asking for their file, just names.”

  Brendyn hesitated. “How do I know you’re really a cop?”

  “Because I know all about the mess you’re caught up in.”

  “Detective Skye, I swear to God it wasn’t my weed. I was just giving those guys a ride to the Steel Yard.” Then: “If my mother finds out, she’ll take my car and I’ll have to catch the bus to school and work.”

  “You know what, Brendyn, I’ll forget about your marijuana troubles if you give me the names.”

  “You swear?”

  “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  “It’ll take me at least an hour to search the records.”

  “Got a pen?”

  “Yeah, shoot.”

  “My number is 216-619-2009. I’ll expect those names in an hour.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  The entire world around them was mute. It was nothing more than images, colors, motion, perception, and touch. They stood in front of the Wellness Center dressed for a rigorous yoga session. After reading the “Family Emergency” note stuck to the door, the man turned to his wife and spoke to her in sign language. She frowned, disappointed, then knocked on the Wellness Center’s door for good measure anyway. When no one answered, they strolled up Superior Avenue holding an intense conversation in sign language.

  • • •

  “Please help me! Somebody help me,” Anderson screamed. “He’s got a gun!”

  Through clenched teeth, Chance said, “Open your pussy eaters again and I’ll go out in a blaze of glory starting by killing you. Then I’ll shoot through this door and kill whoever’s on the other side of it.” He raised the gun to Anderson’s head. “Choose.”

  Anderson remained silent.


  “Good answer, shithead.” Chance’s heart was giving him a good pounding. He hadn’t punished everyone involved with plotting to ruin his family life yet. Now was not the time to get caught; it would defeat the purpose and spoil the spectacular ending. He eased to the window and to his amazement, he watched a hearing-impaired couple through a slight opening in the venetian blinds, as he realized he had broken out in a sweat. When the couple walked away, he turned back to Anderson. “I don’t think they heard you. Dude, you’re gonna pay for that big-time.”

  “I’m terrified.” A tear ran down Anderson’s face.

  “You should be.”

  “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Knock it off.” Chance tossed the syringe on the floor in front of Anderson. “Don’t touch it or I’ll plug you one.”

  “I need it.”

  “Moron, I need all the answers. Talk before you really upset me.”

  Anderson thought back to his college days. “A week after Valentine’s Day you announced that you and Cash were getting married.”

  FORTY-SIX

  “They’re getting what?” Jazz was outraged. Her smoldering gaze landed on everyone in the room. “They don’t even know each other well enough to get married.”

  “She didn’t tell you,” Yancee said, tying on a do-rag.

  “No, we’ve only been hanging out for a little over a week.” Jazz flopped down on the futon between Anderson and Leon. She held Leon’s hand so everyone could see as he had instructed her to. “Cash isn’t exactly trusting of people. She hasn’t told me much of anything. She’s a real piece of work the way she isolates herself.” Then: “I can tell this, though, I notice she’s changing. It’s like she’s coming to life, unthawing or something since she went out with Chance. When she does talk to me, Chance is the topic and her face lights up.”

  “Hate to admit it,” Leon said, “but Chance is the same way. He’s living and breathing Cash.”

  “Then you need to fix this mess, Leon,” Anderson said. “Your little joke backfired. People stand to get hurt behind this if the truth comes out later than sooner.”