Wrong Chance

by E. L. Myrieckes

  “I’m not feeling this, Hakeem. First the killer leaves a personal message to you on Yancee’s body. Now it—”

  “It?” Hakeem frowned.

  “Yeah, it because no one can tell me if the call was made by a male or female. Like I was saying: now it calls a police tip line and speaks directly to you and me.”

  Hakeem stopped an officer coming out the Wellness Center. “Hey, I want everyone in this crowd identified. Get me field interview cards filled out on them.”

  The officer nodded.

  To Aspen he said, “I swear I don’t want to know what’s written on this body.”

  “Me neither, Hakeem. Me neither.”

  He yawned and closed his eyes. Big mistake. Behind his eyes it happened again: The image of the small body flashed through his mind. Its lifeless form stretched across a stainless steel autopsy table; its dead eyes frozen open forever. Hakeem’s cell phone hit the sidewalk. He opened his eyes, but his breath was gone. He struggled and gasped to get it back.

  “Hakeem, are you all right?” Dr. Aura Chavez led him to the hood of a police cruiser that was parked at the curb.

  He loosened his tie, sucking down cupfuls of air. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.”

  “I think I need to write you another prescription,” she said, handing him his cell phone.

  “That will really help.” He powered off the phone, totally forgetting Aspen was on the line. “I’m scared to close my eyes. Every time I do, I see the body. I can’t take it.”

  “It’s a classic case of Survivor’s Guilt. I’m starting to worry about you, Hakeem, and I swear this is the last prescription I’m writing you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” His breathing began to even out.

  “Not if you’re not sleeping.” She scribbled his prescription on a medical slip. “I gave you an antidepressant for your post-traumatic stress.”

  “What about some stronger sleeping pills?”

  “You’re becoming dependent on them. The antidepressant will help.”

  “Aura, please, I need sleep.”

  “What’s next, Hakeem? Are you going to start self-medicating with booze? This is getting out of hand.”

  Hakeem said nothing. He could tell from her tight expression that she was going against her better judgment as she wrote another prescription.

  She stuffed the prescription in his breast pocket. “Got a DNA profile back on the hair from the Yancee Taylor murder. It belongs to an African American male.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Came from upstairs. They spent the money to get it done.”

  “I’ll run it through CODIS and see if I get a hit on it.” Thousands of genetic DNA profiles of convicted offenders and unidentified profiles collected from crime scenes throughout the country were stored in CODIS, a national database.

  “What are the odds of it matching the eyelash we found here?”

  Hakeem shrugged an I don’t know as Aspen sent him a text message that read: Are you all right? He didn’t know that answer either.

  SIXTY-SIX

  The way Scenario held her gaze on GP while unbuttoning her blouse took his breath away. They were each other’s first, fumbled through their first orgasms together while they discovered the dynamics and joys of sex, experienced congress with each other like it was created only for them.

  Scenario stepped closer to GP. “Take me right here. Bend me over the arm of the sofa.”

  GP bit his bottom lip, letting out a frustrated sigh. His mouth watered as he looked at her perky breasts, loving the way her flawless nipples were set in caramel areolas. “God, you’re beautiful. Never seen anyone more beautiful.” He turned his back on her, grabbed his head and sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing those perfect breasts on his back. “We can go in my bedroom if you want.”

  “I’m married, Cash.” He peeled her soft arms away, begging his erection to back off.

  “What difference does that make to me and you? We promised ourselves to each other no matter what, no matter who we’re with. It’s not like we haven’t done it before. Kitchie won’t know now like she didn’t know then.”

  “I wasn’t married then, and I’ll know now, Cash.” Then: “It’s nothing personal against you.”

  “Then why are you talking to me with your back turned to me?”

  “Because you’re too gorgeous. I’m afraid if I turn around and face you, I won’t turn back.” Silence. “I didn’t know that I still love you so much. You have everything inside of me going crazy.”

  “Then why aren’t you inside of me where you’re supposed to be?”

  He faced her.

  She let her blouse slip from her shoulders and stuck her hand in his pants. “I want this. Don’t you want to give it to me like you always have?”

  He broke eye contact with her while her delicate hand stroked his desire. He could still picture all the times she straddled him and sucked a passion mark on his neck as they exploded together. He removed her hand. “No, Cash, what I want to do is say thank you.”

  Her brows knotted. “Thank me for what?”

  “This test.” He gathered his leather jacket from the sofa. “Us being here together gave me the perfect opportunity to honor my commitment to Kitchie and to truly understand what my marriage means to me.” He leaned in and kissed her lips. “Thank you. I’ll always love you and be here for you, Cash. For anything…but not this as long as I’m married.” Then: “You wanted my advice. A lie is a lie. Just like a lie got you in trouble before, it’ll get you in trouble again when the truth comes to light.” He touched her face, then let himself out of her house.

  Scenario locked the door behind him, horny, frustrated, unsatisfied. She paced and thought, stopping only when her landline rang. She stared at the phone until it stopped ringing. Then her cell phone came alive. “What is it?”

  “Ms. Davenport.” It was Chief Dwight Eisenhower.

  “Yes,” she said, softening her tone to sound more civil than she really felt.

  “You better get down here.” He paused and spoke to someone in his background. When his attention came back to her, he said, “We’re on Superior at the Wellness Center. We’ve got another dead body courtesy of the Hieroglyphic Hacker.”

  She picked her blouse up. “Just what the fuck I needed.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Something stunk about the whole situation and Aspen wasn’t feeling it. The exhale of the air conditioner chilled the Homicide Unit to an uncomfortable temperature. She chugged down a Syntha-6 protein shake that guaranteed weight loss while keeping an eye on the fax machine. “It doesn’t make any sense to me.” She threw her hands up. “I’m completely thrown off.”

  Detective Leonardo Scott spat a wad of Red Indian in an empty soda can. “Profiles are pretty accurate. This guy is supposed to be a white male; it’s textbook.”

  “See, now that’s what puzzles me,” Hakeem said, removing a folded piece of paper from the Mont Blanc folder. His eyes were getting heavier by the second. “The DNA found at the Yancee crime scene belongs to a black male. Nothing matching it in the database. And they’re putting a rush job on the lash found at the Anderson crime scene.”

  “But,” Aspen said about to light up a cigarette until Hakeem frowned at her, “Scratch saw Yancee approximately thirty minutes before his time of death with a woman, who didn’t turn out to be Terri Dunlap.” She glanced at her notes. “Driving a red Infiniti. And the voice on the tip line recording sounds like a woman to me.”

  “I’m with you, Aspen,” Hakeem said. “I don’t know if we’re looking for a gorgeous woman, a white man, a black man, or all three.”

  “I like the Chancellor Fox fella for this.” Detective Leonardo Scott stuffed a new batch of chew between his cheek and gums. Then, just like Aspen’s, his eyes fell to the fax machine. “He fits: He’s a veterinarian. Vets have skills with scalpels and stock medicine like succinylcholine. He lived in Denver during
the time of the murders. Plane records show he’s been to Cleveland as of recent, and he used to go to that school, uh—”

  “Monticello.” Hakeem yawned. “And he’s fallen off the face of the earth.”

  “Or hiding,” Detective Scott said.

  Aspen finished her protein shake. “But we’re back to him being white. And according to the plane manifest, he was here six months ago. The murders just started.”

  “They stopped six months ago in Denver, though,” Detective Scott said.

  “All of the reasons above are why I want to find him and bring him in for questioning.” Hakeem closed his eyes and nodded off.

  “The boys back home are searching high and low for him. His animal clinic has been closed for months.” Detective Scott looked at Hakeem who was now asleep in the chair. “Detective Eu—”

  “No, let him sleep, he needs it.”

  The piece of paper fell from Hakeem’s hand. Detective Scott picked it up and tried to make sense of the words.

  amilyfay isay ethay acredsay ightray

  ofay assagepay. eathday otay ethay

  vileay oersday owhay tersalay ethay oursecay

  ofay anmay, omanway, ildchay. astlay

  arningway, etectivesday, ackbay upay

  or oinjay ethay eadday.

  “Pig Latin is way above my pay grade,” Detective Scott said, handing Aspen the paper.

  “It says ‘Family is the sacred rite of passage. Death to the evildoers who alter the course of man, woman, child. Last warning, Detectives, back up or join the dead.’ ”

  “Impressive. Where did you learn pig Latin?”

  “Grade school. I think all little girls learn it so we can talk about boys in secrecy.”

  “So,” Detective Scott said, “why would the Hieroglyphic Hacker lead us to a body and then leave a message on the body to ease off? Sounds like something personal between the killer and you and Eubanks.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid all the taunting is about.”

  The fax machine came to life. Detective Scott twitched like he’d just had a premonition.

  “The moment of truth,” Aspen said.

  • • •

  Aspen wasn’t the least bit surprised. Detective Leonardo Scott, however, stared at the fax as if he were the stupidest cop in the history of law enforcement.

  “We just never thought the hieroglyphics actually communicated anything. Never considered it. I just thought he basically graffitied on people and the hieroglyphics were his calling card,” Detective Scott said as they rounded the corner of Aspen and Hakeem’s cubicle.

  On the floor between a desk and chair lay Hakeem asleep.

  Leonardo gave Aspen an uncertain look. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Then mind your business.”

  “Should we get him off the floor?”

  “No, leave him be.”

  “I don’t think I’m cool with this.”

  “Mind your fucking business.” Then: “Did it register that time?”

  He removed a pack of chewing tobacco from inside his Stetson, then readjusted the hat on his head. “I don’t feel right leaving him here like this.”

  “Look, dammit.” Aspen rolled her eyes; her nostrils flared. “He’s going through some things. None of which is any of your damn business. He hasn’t been sleeping so he needs this rest. Furthermore, if I say leave him the fuck alone, then leave him the fuck alone.”

  Her outburst didn’t sway Leonardo either way. “Would this have anything to do with—” He gestured to Hakeem’s desk. “—why his picture frames are turned faced down?”

  “What you need to do is find out why you Denver boys are so incompetent. You need to find out why you assholes didn’t have a clue the killer has been talking to you the whole time.” She gestured to the fax in his hand. “On each of the Denver victims the killer wrote about the sacred rights of animals. What you need to do is find out what the fuck this has to do with animals so we can catch this psychopath.” She lit a cigarette. “That will suit my temperament, Detective, because this not minding your business bull-shit is rubbing me the wrong motherfucking way.”

  “You sound more like his woman than his partner.”

  “That ain’t none of your damn business either.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Leon Page had a terrible habit of waking up with a hangover. Coupled with cirrhosis, it was enough to cause his life to be a painful living hell. Leon developed this despicable characteristic of alcoholism after he watched his partner get murdered in the line of duty and was too pussy to prevent it from happening. He’d just stood there frozen in fear while a golf club-wielding, cigar-smoking female lawyer split his partner’s head open.

  This Monday morning, however, was slightly different from all the other mornings he’d woken up after learning he was a coward. Today he had a nasty hangover; the cirrhosis was more painful than usual; he was still pissy drunk; and he was sincerely worried about Jazz. And to punctuate his issues, his cell phone wouldn’t stop fucking ringing, amplifying the intensity of his hangover with each ring. He couldn’t recall last night’s events or how he’d managed to make it back home to his sofa with an empty bottle of Bacardi clutched in his hand. Leon closed his eyes, straining to remember anything that would validate his worthless existence.

  And the damn phone continued to increase the volume of his hangover.

  He sat up way too fast and his inhuman apartment started spinning. He settled himself against the sofa’s back, dug his dirty fingertips into the cushions on both sides of him, and held on for the ride. When Leon’s miserable world slowed to a reasonable pace that he could function in, his gaze landed on the Glock 23 sitting among the clutter of his coffee table.

  And the phone rang.

  He dug the annoying thing from his pocket. “What?”

  “Leon,” a muffled voice said, “you look like shit.”

  • • •

  Chance, clad in an HVAC uniform, a curly wig, and a pair of sunglasses with built-in binoculars, stood on the rooftop of a downtown office building. He removed a Phillips screwdriver from the tool belt slung low on his waist and made a show of tinkering with a ventilation unit while watching Leon through the window of his low-rental apartment in a high-rise seventy yards away.

  He whipped his phone out after amusing himself with Leon’s discomfort and punched in the number of his next victim.

  Eight rings later, Leon said, “What?”

  “Leon, you look like shit.”

  “How the hell would you know what I look like?” Leon said, trying to place the voice but drawing a complete blank.

  “ ’Cause I’m looking at you.”

  “Who’s this?” Leon stuck his tongue out and turned the Bacardi bottle up until the last drip leaked onto his tongue.

  “That’s a nasty habit you got there.”

  “Who is this?” He staggered to his sixteenth-floor window.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Then: “Guess what?”

  “Do I get to buy a vowel? What?”

  “You die next.”

  Leon did something he hadn’t done in a year of Sundays—he sobered up. Instantly. “You’ll only be doing me a real favor, you asshole. Alimony, my liver, Bacardi, and child support has already killed me.” Leon glanced at his watch, 7:42 a.m. “Call me back when you got some bad news for me.”

  • • •

  Leon hung up on the anonymous caller and thought about Jazz again. His thoughts compelled him to pick up the gun from the coffee table, figuring he’d make amends to Jazz for all the damage he’d done and make life simpler for everyone by driving a bullet through his brain. When he checked the clip in preparation of his suicide, he noticed a bullet missing—the same bullet that would have saved his partner’s life if he’d had the guts to fire it sooner. In an instance the memories of his disgrace came rushing back as if it happened only hours ago.

  He and his partner, Kirt Gilchrist, surrounded the cigar-smoking attorney with tactical prec
ision. She held a golf club over her head. Sizing up her prey. Ready to strike like a seasoned predator. Leon, a rookie Hoboken, New Jersey, cop, stood behind the attorney with his gun drawn. Sweat inched down his forehead, headed straight for his eyes. Leon wanted to wipe the irritating sweat away, but he couldn’t risk taking a hand off the gun.

  She gnawed on the hundred-dollar cigar, swaying like a cobra.

  Officer Gilchrist had said, “Ms. Daniels, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder for financial gain.”

  She grunted. Smoke pouring from her nose. Pure defiance in her eyes.

  Officer Gilchrist reached for his gun.

  “Put. The. Club. Down!” Leon had said, as if he meant business and wasn’t to be fucked with.

  Before Officer Gilchrist could free his gun from its holster, she slammed the golf club into his wrist, crushing the bones with ease.

  Leon froze; his feet rooted to the ground.

  Within seconds, she struck Gilchrist again and split his skull easier than she had his wrist. Gilchrist was a corpse before his body hit the ground.

  The arrest was supposed to be simple arithmetic: Serve the warrant. Secure her. Mirandatize the suspect. Deliver her to the county jail to be processed and await arraignment.

  But Ms. Daniels had other plans. She spun around and squared off with Leon. She sucked in a thick cloud of smoke. “Always thought it would be the cigars that took me out.” She lunged at Leon with the bloody golf club.

  Leon thawed and pulled the trigger. As the bullet tore into her heart, Leon remembered Yancee’s, his college buddy’s, warning: One day, Leon, I swear your hesitation to do the right thing is going to get someone killed.

  Four hours after Leon had frozen, he explained the events that led to Gilchrist’s death to the department. Now all he needed was to relieve some stress. What better way to do it than to go home and punch out his wife?

  SIXTY-NINE

  Jazz cried out. “My baby. Please stop, Leon. You’ll make me lose the baby.” Heavy moans of deep pain leaked from her battered body. She lay on their bedroom floor, trembling, still feeling the sting of his fists; still hugging her stomach to protect her unborn child from another violent blow. This was the first time he’d drawn blood since the night he violently took her virginity. This was the first time he made his abuse visible to the naked eye.