“It sounds to me like that farmer might have added a little something to the slop. That the end of the dream?”
“Yeah. No wait! Then there was a baby pig that started crying. He asked one of the big pigs why Margaret would let the farmer do that to her.”
Before Simon could continue, a fox ran across the highway in front of them. Simon yelled for his brother to stop. Panicked, Larry grabbed the steering wheel tight and swerved the truck just enough to miss the fox.
Larry took several long, deep breaths. This was not the first time that Simon had overreacted to some critter in the road, and he had gotten good at ignoring his brother's pleas. This time, however, his focus was on the pig dream, and that must have thrown him off his game.
“Damn it, Simon. I have told you a hundred times not to scream out like that for every little rat and snake you happen to see on the damn road!”
“I know. I'm sorry,” Simon said, head lowered like a puppy that shit the bed.
“You know that I can't just slam on the breaks in this thing. Hell, the last time you put your foot down hard on this pedal, we nearly lost our load, let alone our very lives.”
“I know, Lar, and I'm getting better I promise. Sometimes I catch myself and I don't say nothin'.”
Larry was clenching the wheel tight and his fingers were turning a pale white, but when he saw the remorse in Simon's eyes, he softened. “I know,” Larry said with a twinge of guilt. “I'm sorry for yelling at you. No harm done, right? Now why don't you go ahead and finish up that pig dream.”
Simon situated himself comfortably back in his seat. He had moved up to the very edge when he saw the fox. He pretended not to have heard Larry and looked out his window silently.
“Come on, please? I want to hear the end.”
“Sure, Larry, OK. Where was I?”
“Little pig was crying. Asked why the farmer would eat the pigs like that.”
“Oh yeah, that was almost the end, right before you woke me up.”
Simon gave his brother a mean look so that Larry would know just how much it sucked to have been woken up, and then he continued. “The big pig just said, 'Why else are we here, if not to get eaten?'
SIX
The room he was given was the color of baby mice. The grimy touch of fingers had stained the shallow pink over the years, giving it a trans-parent blanket of gray. His bed was a creaking wooden antique, topped with a grotesque green blanket that had all but lost its purpose.
He went to the bathroom and vomited. The majority of the bile made it into the toilet, but some splashed to the floor and onto the seat. His stomach continued to churn, but he didn't feel that he'd be sick again.
As he looked up, he glimpsed the mirror and the face within; like a portrait painstakingly painted. His face was that of any man, with no distinction, except for those that he had given it.
He could not recall how long ago that he had burned his scalp, but he remembered the ritual. He had been kneeling on top of a tall, grassy hill looking over a great city. It was night then, as it was now, but he had become accustomed to seeing in the dark. He had taken a large shard of glass and raked it over his scalp. He scraped hard against his flesh and his blood anointed him with crimson. He didn't stop until he removed as much of his hair as possible, then he removed his eyebrows and facial hair in the same manner.
He had wiped the blood from his eyes with an old rag and then submerged the rag in a can of oil he couldn't remember bringing. He smeared all the fleshy parts of his cranium with the oil, and then lit them.
Now his head was a scarred, bumpy mass. His jaw and neck were scarred as well, but still smooth to the touch, while his brow had taken on a reptilian look. He no longer grew any hair.
Sometime later, in another location that he could not recall so easily, he had performed the same ritual to his arms, legs, and groin. From then on, he felt clean. He felt as if he was a new creature, fresh from resurrection. He was ready to begin again, ready to accept what a man needs.
As he looked in the mirror now, what looked back didn't shock him, though he didn't recognize himself. It was a strange thing to see one's own appearance. He felt that perhaps he had no appearance at all, and that his mind just made the reflection up to make him feel more human. There was no way to be sure.
He was wearing a dress shirt, copper in color, with a brown necktie. His slacks were as black as a cursed cat, and his belt was the same. He didn't remember where the clothes had come from, or when he had put them on, but they didn't seem like something that he would normally wear. He turned away from the mirror then, as he no longer cared about the person looking back. When he sat on the foot of the bed, he noticed the television in front of him. He never was much for it. Reality was difficult enough to deal with without the veil that television put over it.
The energy had been lessening quickly. He could feel the pain below his skin. It was a pain that he could never reach, and the energy was the only thing that could help him ease the suffering.
Behind him on the bed, tied and gagged, lay a man. This was something that he could remember. This man had been gingerly eating a box of small cookies and watching pornography behind the counter in the office of this very motel. He could not remember the name of the motel, but the man he could picture vividly in his mind's eye. The man had been sitting behind the counter in a sleeveless shirt and sweatpants that were as dirty as the sex he was watching. He clearly was not expecting any visitors at the motel at this hour, and jumped to his feet at the sight of a patron. His erection had still been visible under his sweat pants as he stood.
That man was now on the bed, thrashing and writhing in orgasmic fear, but a quick slap across the man's face ended his noisy protest.
He stood up and put his forehead against the wall, and moved the palm of his right hand across the semi-smooth surface, remembering the little mice from his childhood. How they squeaked when he caressed them, and how he stopped their sound. He looked over at the man on the bed and realized that this was not much different.
He bumped his head repeatedly against the wall trying to remember how long ago that had been. His memory was such an untrustworthy thing.
How old had he become?
The man looked up at him with crying eyes. Eyes that begged and pleaded. Those were the eyes that he was waiting for, and now that he had them, he knew that the pain would end soon.
The energy would return to him.
SEVEN
The FBI wasn't called in until the fifth murder. It had taken that long before someone realized there could be a connection. During agent Henderson's watch, the count had increased by eleven. In the time that Harry had the job, there had been four more.
That was until today. The call that woke him from his brief sleep notified Harry of number twenty-one.
Blackjack.
The pressure was already on Harry to produce results. Strawberries, as the media had dubbed him, was becoming a sensation. Once they got wind, reporters had run with the story as fast as they could. Now, you couldn't turn on a major news network without seeing some sort of blurb about him.
Henderson had leaked some of the crime scene info to the press in a desperate move to make some progress. That plan had done nothing but backfire. Though no one said it too loudly, it was thought to have played a major role in his demotion and transfer.
This was not a case that any agent would want. What seemed like the perfect opportunity to make a name for oneself was really just a brick wall to drive into. To the best of Harry's knowledge, Henderson was a bright up-and-comer, and now he was working small-time fraud cases.
The problem was that Strawberries was not just killing these people–he was killing them with pizazz. Every death was something new and horrific. He didn't seem to have any preference in victims or motive for killing them, and he was traveling. Harry had a map that showed all of the killings, and when he drew a line connecting them, in the order in which they were thought to have occurred, he was left
with a zig-zagged mess.
Harry parked his 1985 Caprice Classic as close to the crime scene as he could, but there were already numerous vehicles, cops, paramedics, and pedestrians in his way. The old gray bitch made a loud pop as the engine lost its howl, and a plume of noxious smoke shot out of the tail pipe like a death rattle. Some of the gathered pedestrians were startled by the noise, while others were too busy coughing black smoke to care. Harry had named his car Susie, after his first crush, and she had topped half a million miles.
The murder took place at a motel named the Panama Parade, whatever that meant. The NO on the vacancy sign was clearly not on, but then, neither was most of the VACANCY. The only difference that he could see between this shit hole and the motel he was staying in was the name and a few different, half-dead plants out front.
He ignored protests from the gathering hoard as he limped his way to the motel lobby. He couldn't say that his knee was acting up again because it never seemed to actually stop anymore. His knee was just his knee, and his knee was a piece of shit.
As he ascended the concrete steps that lead past the lobby and to the front office, several officers gave him a slight nod. They did this, not because they knew or even cared who he was, but because he wore the boring black suit of a federal agent, and they reacted like chimps to his presence. It was not that Harry thought less of these men, it was just that he was so tired of the game that he didn't care anymore. Nobody really cared, so why pretend?
Truth was, he only had two suits, and he hated both of the fuckers.
When he got to the office, knee ablaze, he found several men standing in a semicircle drinking coffee. When he entered, they abruptly stopped chatting and simultaneously sipped from their Styrofoam cups. It was one of those moments when Harry just knew they were talking about him.
Stop giving a crap about what people think of you Harry.
The first one to speak again was a man wearing a much nicer, bluer suit than his own, with a very loud tie featuring what Harry thought were the dancing Grateful Dead bears. This man was Sheriff Frank Gambon, and he was not a fan of Harry.
“God damn it, Bland! Where the hell have you been all morning? We called you at least a half hour ago,” yelled the sheriff.
Frank Gambon had the exact personality that you'd find in any detective movie. Harry thought that he might have actually fashioned it that way on purpose. He could even picture Frank at his home, pants off, with Mike Hammer on the TV screen. Harry could clearly see Frank lip-sync every line and mimic each movement.
“Traffic. What can I tell ya?” said Harry, trying not to sound like a wounded squirrel.
That was the best you could come up with?
He wanted to put Frank in his place right there in front of everyone, but instead he just lied about the traffic. Funny thing was, the sheriff was not in charge anymore. Harry was running the show, but Frank always seemed to be right there to fuck with him.
Frank's department was on the case for the last murder, number twenty. That time, the victim was a twenty-four-year-old male lawyer who had been completely gutted and left in a garbage bin. His insides were found one piece at a time on the sidewalk, lying in a straight line for nearly three blocks. It was as if Strawberries killed the man right at the spot he was found, sliced his abdomen open, and then just dropped his parts, one by one, as he went for a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood. The last piece found was the victim's heart, and the psychopath drew his signature strawberry right next to it on the sidewalk.
The neighborhood had been canvassed twice, but no one saw a thing. Frank only had the case for two days before Harry showed up, and he had hated him from that first moment.
Harry steeled himself as best he could before addressing the sheriff again. “If you could just give me the details, Frank, I can handle it from here.”
“Like hell. You couldn't even handle my sister if I stuck her tit directly into your hand.”
Harry had read several self-help books on assertiveness, yet none of the helpful anecdotes came back to him at the moment. Self-help books, can you believe it?
His confidence level the past few years was shot. After Sara left him, he was never able to get back in the game. It was not that he missed her; in fact, he was glad that she was gone, but he had used her as a sort of crutch for so many years. It was like he had to start all over again, except this time, half his life was behind him, and now, he could also feel the candle going out on his career. He was burnt out. Spent up.
Enthusiasm. That was what he lacked.
He stood there looking at Frank and thinking of what to say next, but instead turned to the man standing next to Frank. Harry could not remember his name, but he knew him to be the sheriff's right hand. “Why don't you give me the rundown, Deputy?”
The man was taken aback when Harry spoke to him directly. He didn't seem to want to answer Harry's question until he got a nod of permission from the sheriff.
“Well, Sir, we have another murder. That Strawberries bastard strung him up real good this time. Blood all over. It's a goddamn horror show in there. We asked around, but no one has seen or heard a thing. There ain't but two other people staying in this pit.”
“And how are we sure that it was Strawberries'?”
“Well who else could it have been?” said the deputy, noticeably confused.
“Strawberries is not the only person to have killed someone are they?”
“Oh. Well, no Sir, but he did sign his name just like before.”
Frank laughed, “Of course it was him, Blandy, just get in there and look for yourself. Joey, why don't you take Captain Super-Agent here to the room so he can get himself a little looky-loo. Better take yourself a barf bag and an extra pair of underpants with you too.” The sheriff slammed his cup down on the counter, splashing coffee over a rack of fliers. “If you need me, call someone else.”
Frank left, bumping shoulders with Harry just like a schoolyard bully. Harry was glad to see him go. The remaining deputies stayed where they were, even when Harry made for the crime scene. “You guys coming?” he asked.
“We've seen enough for the moment, Sir,” said the one called Joey. “We'll be back in after we finish this coffee if that's alright. There are two others in there already anyway.”
Harry nodded an affirmative and walked to the motel room. He did his deep breathing exercises and calmed himself, pushing the thoughts of Frank Gambon out his mind. He wanted to be fresh. He had been staring at blood and guts on walls, covering floors, and in pictures for so long, and he had yet to put two clues together. He wanted to really see the scene this time, not just the gore.
You are not Sherlock Holmes, Harry.
EIGHT
FADE IN:
INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT
We open in an Italian Restaurant decorated to mimic old world Italy, but is really just a bunch of prefabricated plywood and paint. SYLVIA and her blind date have been sitting at a small table against the wall, and have been mostly silent thus far. He has talked a bit about himself, but has said nothing that Sylvia will ever remember. Their waiter, a very tall man in his early twenties that clearly was still struggling to grow a proper beard, has recently brought the food to their table. They both have dug in with ferocity.
MAN
(finally breaking the silence)
This is so good. I feel like I have been on hard tack for a month.
SYLVIA
Oh, yeah? So you're in the military then?
MAN
No, I just play a lot of video games.
SYLVIA
Video games will rot your soul.
MAN
So will the military. I just picked the one with digital blood.
SYLVIA
Why did you need to pick either?
MAN
Because, all of the fun hobbies are for girls.
SYLVIA
Right. Like cross-stitching, scrap-booking, and macramé.
MAN
Like
gossip, plastic surgery, and sexual dictatorship.
SYLVIA
You obviously have a skewed view of women. I don't see how I could possibly have a chance.
Sylvia puts her fork down on the table, and the man takes the cue. Discussion will now commence in earnest.
MAN
Your breasts and vagina give you the street cred you need to hang with the big dogs.
SYLVIA
Is that all you're looking for? Parts?
MAN
The best parts, but no, I do ultimately want more.
SYLVIA
I think I should go ahead and take this opportunity to inform you that I don't remember your name. In fact, I'm not entirely sure that I ever knew it at all.
MAN
(smiling)
My name is William, but everyone just calls me Bill. Your friend Melissa was supposed to let you in on that information, but I guess she never did.
SYLVIA
She's not always forthcoming with important information, and I'm not always the quickest to remember the details. So, it's a toss-up as to who forgot. What else? What else, other than parts, are you looking for in a girl?
BILL (formerly MAN)
Companionship. Stability. Whatever. All that typical jargon you say when you play by the book.
Sylvia had been privy to this kind of talk before. Right now, this man was trying to stand out from all other men. He wanted to impress her with his attitude and charisma.
SYLVIA
You aren't so good at making a girl feel welcome.
BILL
Maybe, it's you that isn't so good at making a man feel honest.
[2016] Strawberries Page 4