by J. D. Martin
The shadows surrounding the man gave way like a dark sheet yanked away when he stepped right in front of Jackson. Leaning down face-to-face with him, the man smiled maniacally. “I think that it is, in fact, I who’s gonna kill you…mutha fucka.”
Rising back up with more pep in his voice, he returned to the matter at hand. “But first, I have a little treat for the 12th Street’s number one enforcer. In case you forgot, I believe that’s you,” he said, pointing at his captive.
Shane Jackson had been with the Ryders for nearly eight years and had gained a reputation as the man happy to kill anyone the Ryders painted a target on. Without the brutish force for honorable battle, he used handguns to kidnap people and then beat them within an inch of their life to get what the Ryders wanted. If the person didn’t do what was expected of them, they were rewarded with three bullets. One in each kneecap and another to the head. Eventually word got out, and people did what the Ryders wanted.
“You see, I know all about your reputation and I thought it was cruel that you weren’t buying the product you sold.”
“What are you talking about?” Shane asked softly.
“What I mean is I think you deserve a taste of your own medicine.” Dragging a backpack from the shadows, the man placed it in the center of the yellow spotlight three feet in front of Shane. Kneeling over it, he unzipped the pack and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles that shined in the light. “Recognize these?” The knuckles belonged to Jackson.
The man slid them onto his fingers, admiring how comfortable they were. Taking a boxer’s stance, he bounced around throwing a few air jabs. Shane’s muscles tightened as he tried to move away, but his bonds weren’t giving him an inch.
“You ain’t gonna get away with this,” said Jackson. “My boys’ll find yo punk ass and show you all about pain, bitch.”
“There’s that unearned bravado again. You know, you should really show more respect to your fellow man. But if you’d done that, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“Wait,” he said with his brows furrowed. An idea suddenly struck Jackson. “You’re him, aren’t you?”
“Ding, ding, ding,” the man shouted. “Let’s show him what he’s won, Johnny!” The fist flashed faster than Shane’s eyes could see as the brass jewelry connected first with the side of his face and again with his ribs.
“He has bruising covering a large portion of his upper torso and face,” reported Amy. We listened as she examined the dead body. “Jackson was beaten severely with something that—based on the shape of the discoloration—is most likely the brass knuckles forensics found. They’ve already bagged them to test the blood residue.”
Bronson asked, “What about his legs?” He was referring to the large hole in each of them around the knees that had stained the pants with blood.
“His legs,” she said, “was when the savagery went a step further.”
Bound to the chair, Shane Jackson moaned in pain. Blood trickled from his lips and formed a small puddle in his lap as his eyes lulled back-and-forth. His face was covered with contusions that were beginning to darken from repeated strikes. The pain overloaded his senses to where he knew of nothing else. As he started to pass out, his head suddenly snapped back as his captor cracked smelling salts beneath his nose.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Jackson. We aren’t through yet because we’re only up to the second round.” Shane heard the clang of the brass hitting the floor as the man tossed them aside. Flexing his fingers and rubbing his hands together, he stepped closer to Shane.
“Those things aren’t that comfortable after all, but I suppose it was worse for you. Even worse was trying to get them over these damn gloves,” he said, pulling at the blue nitrile and letting it snap against his skin. “Still, I think it’s time we move onto the next item of business. Is that ok with you?” Shane made a gurgling sound as he coughed up blood.
“Please, no more,” he moaned.
“Come on, Mr. Jackson. We had a wonderful curtain and now the audience is demanding the third act. Intermission is over. We can’t just stop the show if we want a good review. How would they know how the story ends?”
“Just kill me already…please.”
“All in good time,” the man said. Digging in the backpack on the floor once again, he pulled out a silver pistol with a large suppressor screwed into the barrel. He stood up and let the weapon rest at his side as he surveyed Jackson’s wounds.
“No more,” Jackson whispered. “Make it stop. I’m sorry for what I did.”
“I’m grateful to hear your remorse, Mr. Jackson.” The man stepped forward and rested the business end of the pistol on Shane’s right knee. “It’s always good to get right with the universe before it all ends, but I’m not done yet.” Pointing the barrel straight down, he fired a single round through his kneecap that exploded from the back of his calf with the same brutality Shane had inflicted on his victims.
He screamed with a renewed feeling of fire tearing through his flesh. Worse than any pain he’d experienced in his entire life, pieces of meat and bone splattered onto the floor beneath his chair as the bullet seared through him.
“We’re half way there my friend,” said the man with the gun as he moved the barrel to its next target. As the explosion rang forth once more, Shane shuddered through waves of excruciating pain as both his knees were destroyed.
“Someone blew out both his kneecaps?” Delgado asked.
“Yep,” replied Amy. “The bullets were found imbedded in the floor. Forensics dug them out, but they haven’t found the weapon yet.”
With timing so perfect that it seemed planned, a voice on the other side of the room cried out, “Found it.”
“Spoke too soon, Ms. Doyle,” I joked. Her nose wrinkled as she made a face at me. “Anything else we should know?” I asked her, getting back to business.
“Just that after all Jackson went through, he was finished off with our man’s signature move.”
After what seemed like an eternity to Shane, screaming alone in the spotlight, the man returned from the darkness. “It’s been fun, Mr. Jackson. I hope you’ve enjoyed experiencing what your victims went through, but it’s time to end this in spectacular fashion.”
“No more,” he whispered.
“Shane Jackson,” the man said ignoring him. “You are here because you made it your life’s work to inflict pain on the people of this city. People guilty of nothing more than your coveting were tortured and murdered.”
The man stood alongside Jackson and let the cold steel of a surgical blade slide along his forearm and up his bicep until it came to rest on his chest. Shane felt the harshness in his throat from repeated screams as he once more bellowed while the scalpel cut into his flesh.
The man continued working as he carved out four letters as a brand for the guilty. “You have been arrested time and time again with plenty of chances to make better choices.” He finished cutting into Jackson’s chest and took a position behind his chair as he continued.
“However, it has become clear to me that you are incapable of change. You chose this path that brought our lives together, but this is where it ends.” With Jackson longing for an end to the pain, the man was happy to oblige. “Qui tacet consentire videtur”
“The final cut along the throat was what did him in,” said Amy as she indicated to the point that stained the victim’s shirt with all the blood.”
“He even has ‘REUS’ like the others,” added Delgado.
“I think we have enough here to let you guys take over,” I said to Pinick and Bronson. “Let me know what else you find in the morning.”
“Will do,” said Pinick as he mockingly saluted. Smiling and flipping him off, Delgado and I left the rest in their capable hands. We’d already been on overtime for an hour now, and Hawthorne wasn’t about to pay us more, so we had to hand over the reins for the night. Besides, now I still had time for my date with Kathryn.
Chapter 15
I entered the Corrello
’s Market at 13th & Main in the Power & Light District. I did most of my grocery shopping here because it was a convenient location less than a half mile from my apartment building, and the owners spared no expense in making the inside contemporary and beautiful. The family owned many grocery locations around the city, but this felt like the flag ship of the fleet. Stepping through the rotating doors was like stepping into a grocery-filled showroom.
There was designer lighting from the shelving to the ceiling that also highlighted the rich-wooden displays and hardwood floors throughout. Corrello’s Market was more than just another grocery store; it was practically art. Past the cashiers near the front was a deli that served fresh food daily, such as standard sandwiches or salads, but there was also braised chicken, spareribs, or even sushi.
If the splendor of the building and convenient location wasn’t enough to keep me coming here, there was also how much they did for the community. Each year they partnered with a local radio station and donated thousands of dollars in food to people needing a hand up around the holidays. I tried to shop at local businesses that helped the community they serve. It was the least I could do for the kindness they shared.
I initially heard about their community efforts through a rock station that got the city involved to help those in need. The station and the morning DJ got the listeners involved and the way they helped people they didn’t know always touched me.
Walking around the different sections of food, I grabbed some chicken, green beans, and a bag of red potatoes. My thoughts were that garlic herb chicken with grilled red skin potatoes and green beans sounded like the start of a wonderful dinner. But I was still missing something to make the meal complete, so I continued to the southwest corner of the store where there was an entire section of various wines both local and foreign. After sorting through various bottles, I decided to go with a red from Pirtle Winery; local stock from Weston, MO.
As I placed the bottle in my cart, I noticed a young teen boy loitering around the section of alcohol. His eyes kept darting towards the front and down the adjoining aisles as he stood in the back corner. Keeping his hat pulled low on his brow, I watched him pace along the back wall as I crossed to an aisle behind him. I kept my eye on him as the boy tucked a vodka bottle in his shirt and start walking back towards the exit. Before he could get to the front doors, the boy had to walk past me, and I reached out and grabbed his arm just as he started to.
“Are you sure you want to do that, son?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. But as he did so, he shifted to keep the pocket with the pint of vodka as far away from me as possible. His eyes also seemed to have the ability to look everywhere but back into mine.
“Yes, you do. That might bring you a lot of trouble if you go through with it.” The boy continued trying to play dumb as he questioned what I was talking about, but I pressed him again and, after a moment of silence passed between us, he dropped his head in shame. As his eyes stared down, they caught a flash of tin at my waist where my badge rested on my belt.
“Oh, god,” he said, shaking. “I’m so sorry, sir. Please don’t take me to jail. I promise it will never happen again.” He stared back at me, on the verge of crying in the middle of the store, as he continued holding his arm near me. I looked around to make sure nobody was watching because I didn’t want to cause a scene.
“Tell you what,” I said once I felt sufficiently inconspicuous, “you put that back where you found it, and I’ll buy you a soda.” The boy stared at me looking for any possibility of deceit. It seemed to take him a moment to realize that the cop who’d caught him red-handed was giving him the option to make a better choice that night and avoid trouble. “Do we have a deal?”
Nodding his head, he walked back to the shelf and placed the bottle back where it belonged and followed me to the registers. True to my word, he picked out a Coke that I purchased along with the rest of my groceries. Outside, I handed over the soda, “Try to make better life choices in the future, ok? You never know who might be watching.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I will.” With a smile that still seemed unable to accept the lifeline he was just given, the boy walked away with what I hoped was a better idea of what the world could be like. With the boy on his way, I started the short journey back to my apartment with my purchases that would soon be transformed into a delicious dinner for Ms. Kathryn Morrison.
The sun had finally finished setting when I arrived at the entrance to my building. What had once been bits of pink and orange painting the evening sky was now bespeckled with tiny dots of light in the night that covered the city. Through the brass-trimmed revolving doors, I passed over salmon tile with a white diamond all edged with black marble. I passed Chester at the dark mahogany concierge desk just inside the lobby on the way towards the elevators. Giving him a nod when I passed, he wished me a good evening to which I did the same. Through the doors at the back of the lobby, I pressed the button on the wall to call the elevator and, once inside, I pushed the number five to get to my floor.
Upstairs, I finished slicing the potatoes and adding herbs and spices to the chicken before putting them both in the oven. Stepping out to the balcony, I sipped on an iced tea while watching the city below. My mind wandered around until it paused on the facts so far about the Blood Week vigilante. The image from the street camera that Bradley Thompson had put us on could put the vigilante one step closer to being apprehended. His face wasn’t clear in any of the photos, but he’d eventually slip up again, which meant it might not be too long until his identity was revealed. Hiding would be difficult after he was brought out of the shadows. I finished the last of my tea before stepping back inside.
While the food was still baking, I went to the bedroom and opened the safe hidden behind the autumn painting. Once it was open, I un-holstered my weapon and cleared the magazine and chamber of rounds before placing it inside. I also unclipped my badge and returned it to the hole in the wall before closing the safe door and repositioning the canvas over it. Undressing, I put my suit aside to be dry cleaned and hopped in the shower to get cleaned up before Kathryn arrived.
As I stood under the warm water hitting the back of my neck, my mind kept returning to the case. I wondered how long the vigilante could continue his work unscathed. After five years of success, could this be the year that he is finally unmasked? The idea kept rolling through my mind as I washed and continued as I dried off. I did what I could to file it in the back of my mind, so I could focus on the evening as I donned a fresh, button-up shirt and grey slacks. Slipping on a pair of fun dress socks that looked like a shark was eating my foot, I finished with my favorite pair of brown wingtips with matching belt.
Foregoing the blazer of my suit for the moment, I put on an apron to check on the chicken and scalloped potatoes. Checking the meat with a thermometer, it required about fifteen more minutes, but the potatoes were ready to cool. After pulling the dish and placing them to the side, I grabbed a pot out of the cupboard and started warming the green beans. While the food finished up, I filled a wine bucket with ice and placed the bottle in with the cubes. Normally wine was served at room temperature, but I knew that Kat preferred hers chilled. The buzzer on the oven went off a short time later, so I removed the chicken and placed it alongside the potatoes.
The room was permeated by the scent of garlic and herbs as I pulled out two plates from the cabinet. On each of them I placed a single chicken breast and surrounded them with scalloped potatoes and green beans. After placing a pair of wineglasses next to the chilling bottle, I carried the plates of food to the dining area. Just as I set them on the table, I heard a knock at my door. After a quick survey of the table ensuring it was complete, I answered the door to find an angelic vision of a woman wearing an ankle-length blue dress with slits up to her thighs.
As Kathryn stood leaning on one leg, her bent knee spread one slit open, exposing her milky flesh. Her thighs were begging to be caressed all the way down to h
er four-inch black heels. Her blond hair was down, but pulled back over her ears, which allowed the smokiness around her eyes to accentuate her gaze.
“Wow,” I said, looking up and down the hallway and back to her. “You better get in here before my date shows up, she might be jealous.”
Kathryn smiled and smacked my arm just as she noticed the words written across the chest of my apron. “Kiss the cook huh? Sounds like a wonderful idea to me.” Leaning up on her toes, our lips met in what felt like only an instant. It was funny how women could always leave you wanting more.
Inviting her in, I led her to the table where I pulled out her chair before pouring a glass of wine for each of us. I sat in the chair opposite hers and we clinked our glasses together as the start to our evening. We each took a sip; our eyes never leaving the others. “I must say how beautiful you look tonight, Kat.”
“Well, I thought about showing up in yoga pants and a hoodie, but I wasn’t sure if that was classy enough.”
“I’m sure you’d look great in anything or nothing; dealer’s choice really.”
“All in good time, Mr. Saint.” She bit her tongue and winked at me before taking her first bite of chicken. Immediately her attention became distracted from the banter. “Mmmm. This is delicious,” she said with her mouth still full.
“I’m glad you like it. It was actually a recipe of my mother’s.” The mention of my parents was unexpected, putting a momentary damper on the evening.
“The anniversary was a few days ago, wasn’t it?” I nodded. “Amy mentioned it to me. Honestly, I didn’t know about what had happened to them. I’m sorry to hear about your loss.”