15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  The thought brought a smile to RANDOM RICK’s face. He enjoyed the thrill of it all. And if he was going to encounter resistance, he was all the more game for it. Anything that was worth getting without a struggle wasn’t worth a dime.

  “Time to bring some ethnic diversity to my repertoire.” RICK laughed as he keyed the ignition and drove off toward his next job. He typed in the zip code to his next kill.

  “In 100 yards, turn left.”

  Twelve

  Luckily for us, we located the house that the security camera’s feed went into. It was only four doors down from the lamppost. To my surprise, the occupant was far from your usual neighborhood watch person. He was eighteen or nineteen. He looked fit and athletic, and when he answered the door, he had an Italian suit on. I was going to ask him for his parents, but, judging by the state of the hallway, no self-respecting adult lived there.

  “You the owner?” Santiago asked, coming to the same conclusion I did.

  “Yeah, what of it?” the smartly dressed youngster asked. I could tell by his body language that he wasn’t happy with all the commotion outside.

  “Something bothering you?” I asked.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I don’t like having pigs on my doorstep.”

  The comment caught me off guard, but, judging by Santiago’s smile, he expected as much from this particular dude.

  “That’s funny,” Santiago said. “We don’t like rude little shit bags, either, but you don’t see us complaining,” he went on, giving me a coy smile.

  San keeps this up, he’ll get the lieutenant job himself.

  “Just get to the point. What do you guys want?” the young smartly dressed guy asked, still blocking us in on his doorstep. It was difficult to see much of his house, seeing that he was purposely blocking our view of the inside.

  “There’s been a murder a few houses down from you. We have reason to believe that the security camera you have set up on that lamppost over there captured the killer at some point during the homicide.”

  The kid looked at me and relaxed. “Oh, okay. No problem. Come in. Mind the cats,” he said.

  We did as we were told and stepped into the house. It smelt of cat, that was for sure, but we didn’t spot a single cat when we were in there. They must have been out, catting around and whatnot.

  The young homeowner ushered us into his living room. On the wall I spotted a really big TV. It must have been 90 inches. But unfortunately for me, I didn’t have anything remotely as large to compare it to, so maybe it was 50 inches.

  “Nice TV,” San said, emphasizing the sound as “niceeeeeeeeeeeee.”

  “It ain’t bad. Got it for under two grand, so it was a bargain,” the kid said, grabbing the remote and switching it on. A cabinet slid open next to the TV, revealing a multitude of video game consoles and other box-shaped electronics. He grabbed another remote, and a small light blinked on one of the smaller box-shaped wonders. The sound of a hard drive clunking went off, and the TV showed a live feed of the security camera on the lamppost. I could see my shitty Ford Capri on the monitor.

  “Nice car,” the kid said sarcastically.

  “Small penis,” Santiago blurted out of the blue.

  The kid gave San a look, as if he was second-guessing what he had heard. But San was nice enough to elaborate.

  “You must have a small penis,” San said, the kid’s face flushing with anger and embarrassment.

  “What the hell?” he asked out loud.

  “I’m just saying. A TV that big can mean only one thing: You have a minuscule penis.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I was liking this new edgy Santiago. Usually it was my job to bust balls, but he was making up for the fact that I was on thin ice.

  “I don’t have a small penis!” the kid said. “So I guess with that logic, that piece-of-shit car you two turned up in must mean that both of you are hung like horses?” the kid said, angrily picking at the red button on the clicker.

  “You are correct. Frank and I have really large water snakes. Your mom told us they were the biggest she ever tasted,” San said.

  I shook my head. I could see the kid was close to tears. Even in his suit, next to his big TV, this kid looked like he was receding in age with every verbal jab that San gave him. If I let it go on, by the time we left the house, the guy would be on the floor, in diapers, sucking his thumb.

  “Come on now. Let’s focus on the task at hand. You implied that you have video footage of the crime?” I said.

  The guy sniffed, wiping his hand across his face.

  “Yeah, but tell your stupid partner to calm the fuck down before I punch his lights out,” the guy said, looking half serious about it.

  “That’s what you get for calling us pigs. Now get on with it, or I’ll get a warrant to search this property. I’m pretty sure that you’re involved in something illegal, especially with that ‘big TV to small penis’ ratio that you’re pulling off so well.”

  The kid shook his head and said, “I’m a graphic designer. I’ve worked on a few hit video games for mobile platforms. I made a killing on it and bought a house. Is it a crime to be successful?”

  I nodded.

  “It is when you don’t pay taxes,” I said.

  The kid immediately got back to flicking through the TV. He accessed a menu category called “archive” and selected a timestamp that went back a few hours ago. Judging by the many timestamps he had on screen, the camera on the post must be recording all the time.

  “Why do you have a camera up on the post, then?” I finally asked.

  “As I said, I’ve made a good living and want to make sure that I’m safe in my own neighborhood.”

  “You have any cameras around your property?” San asked, this time in a gentle manner. I think he was feeling bad about ribbing the kid.

  “Nope, not yet. But after today, I’m thinking about investing in a few. I think everybody on the street should.”

  “Why do you think that?” San asked.

  The kid looked at him and smiled. “Well, duh! Some poor soccer mom got wasted a few doors down. Isn’t that reason enough to consider a camera?”

  San shrugged his shoulders and then nodded. We were looking at the TV. We watched as the footage from the camera rewound at a fast rate.

  “Stop right there. There he is!” San said.

  The kid quickly stopped, and we all ogled the screen. I saw nothing.

  “What, what do you see?”

  San was quiet for a second.

  “That’s the killer!” he said, pointing at a man getting into a black sedan.

  “How do you know?” the kid asked.

  “Here it comes,” San said.

  And then a cold shiver ran down my back. The man in the sedan looked up at the camera and waved. He then mimicked cutting his own neck with both his hands, and stuck his tongue out to the side as he did so. The car then disappeared.

  Thirteen

  RANDOM RICK got out of his car. He had parked his sedan at the curb. The doors were left unlocked. He’d be out of there quicker than the time it would take for an attempted robbery on his car. He needed the doors to remain unlocked so he could quickly get away. He knew that Charlestown was a dangerous place. Not only was it the oldest neighborhood in Boston, it was also one of the toughest. RICK couldn’t mess around on this one. It would have to be a clean kill and an even cleaner getaway.

  He wasn’t one for worrying too much about anything. But he’d be lying to himself if he said out loud that he was confident. Because deep within the dark depths of his soul, he was shaking at the thought of being made before he could do the deed, so to speak.

  He knew that certain people in certain places acquire a sixth sense. They grow accustomed to smelling out danger. He didn’t want to alarm anybody. The last thing he wanted to do was make people too wary of him. But he’d planned this next kill meticulously. One thing that he needed people to do was ignore him. So he asked himself an hour before, How do you g
et people to ignore you? The answer came to him like a flash out of the blue.

  He had gone down to the local YMCA and got some hand-me-down clothes. He then went to a liquor store around the corner and purchased six bottles of Jack Daniels. He went outside and slid into an alleyway. Out of sight and out of mind, he began to undress. He put his pristine clothes to one side. He then got into the secondhand clothes he’d managed to obtain from the nice people down the road. He then poured two bottles of Jack all over himself. He wanted the smell to sink in. He felt a little wobbly as the alcohol seeped into his skin. Luckily for him, he wasn’t pouring it directly onto his bare skin; otherwise, he’d be dead from alcohol toxicity.

  He waited in the alleyway for ten minutes. He smoked a couple of cigarettes as his thoughts marooned off into nothingness. Suddenly it was time. And thirty minutes later, he found himself outside one of the project buildings in Charlestown.

  He took one last glance at his vehicle at the curb. He felt as if it was now or never. He was ready for the next phase in his spree.

  “Here I come,” he muttered under his breath, walking toward the big building’s entrance, his hand on the knife handle underneath his shirt. He began to act drunk. Swaying from side to side. The people hanging outside the building paid him no attention. He was just another crack addict about to get a fix from the local pusher man. Little did they know, the only thing that he was pushing was nine inches of steel into whoever he came across.

  Fourteen

  “Did you need to be so hard on the kid?” I asked Santiago as we made our way to my Ford. In the end, the young homeowner came up trumps, showing us some valuable evidence. It was our first lead, and I felt good about it. We took a copy of the footage on a memory stick and were just about to leave the scene and head on back to the precinct.

  “I was justified in my ribbing,” San said as he got into the driver’s seat. I guess it was his turn to wreak havoc on the roads.

  “You nearly made him cry. I don’t see why you had to go so far.”

  Santiago keyed the ignition. The engine stuttered to life. I could see the smoke pluming out of the exhaust from the side mirror. The car was due for a checkup soon. Or I leave it, and we end up stranded someplace.

  “The kid got what he deserved. You saw the way he backhanded us with his comments,” San said, putting the car in first and slowly banking away from the curb. I watched as the nosy neighbors looked on, watching us leave the crime scene. A few uniformed police officers stayed behind. Their job was to contain the scene until the CSI came. They were late. It wasn’t like them, but considering the fact that they were most likely attending to our first murder at the hotel, I was okay with giving them some slack.

  “I just think you went too far. The same with the waiter at Muddy Mick’s. You hazed him plenty. I don’t know if you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning or you’re just acting like a prick today.”

  Santiago looked at me and then smiled.

  “I don’t need to justify myself to you, Frank. Let’s not forget that you’re usually the guy getting us into trouble. Not me. So cut the shit.”

  I could tell San was itching for an argument. I’d known him long enough to know that when he was in a mood, he’d drive. When he was his joyful self, he’d let me drive. So it wasn’t a surprise to me that he was being argumentative. I’d usually let it go, but I decided that I wanted some of that action. I couldn’t have him risking my job like he was. If he was being rude to the witnesses and starting playground fights, I’d be the one to pay for it. I doubt Shaw would care who started it – he’d just hear my name in the same sentence and all bets would be off…literally!

  “Just can it, okay?” I blurted out.

  Santiago scrunched his eyes and slowed down, then turned his attention to me. I could see that he was fuming. I gave him my patented look. He knew what it meant. But he didn’t acknowledge it. He just stared at me and then said, “You think it’s easy for me?”

  I shrugged. “It isn’t easy for me, either,” I said.

  San snapped back almost immediately, “No, not the job. I’m talking about you.”

  “What?” I asked, not quite sure what my longtime friend and pain in the neck was getting at.

  “Do you think it’s easy for me to watch you dig yourself into a hole? I mean, every day I see you, it seems as if you’re one step closer to the grave. Everything you do is tainted. You used to be something special, Frank, but I’ve witnessed you deteriorating. I’ve seen you lose your soul. And now what’s left? A shell. That’s what! A shell of your former self. And as if by fate, now Shaw wants you out. Now I’ll be alone. And if you get that damn desk job, that will be it. You’ll be dead in a year, guaranteed!”

  I didn’t know where this was coming from, but I could tell that Santiago meant every word of it. I didn’t know what to say. I just stared out the windshield as specks of rain pattered across the glass.

  “Are you even listening to me?” he snapped.

  I looked at him and attempted to apologize with my eyes. It didn’t work. It just made him even angrier.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” he said, taking a left and then a right in quick succession. “What you say and do affects other people around you. Believe it or not, Frank, we’re not all out to get you. People do love you, you know?”

  I shook my head and started to laugh.

  “For fuck’s sake, Frank! Stop pissing me off!”

  I patted Santiago on his shoulder. I could feel him tense up. “If I do get the desk job, San, I’ll miss you. I’ll miss everybody.”

  San rolled his eyes and clamped his fingers down on the steering wheel. “You just don’t get it,” he said.

  “I get that you care. But don’t worry, San. Everything will work out just fine. We need to cut this domestic short. We have a case. That’s our number-one priority right now. We’ll talk when this is done.”

  Santiago nodded. I could see a minuscule teardrop rolling down his cheek. He quickly swiped at it, making sure to cover up his emotions. I understood where he was coming from. This case was rattling us. And the ultimatum that Shaw had given us before the shit hit the fan was bad enough. But dealing with all these deaths and the winds of change that were surely going to hit us soon was starting to become tiring. One thing was for certain, though. We needed to focus on catching this killer. Everything else could wait.

  Fifteen

  RANDOM RICK swayed into the projects building. He was still acting drunk. The entrance to the building had a narrow hallway and staircase. There was nothing much else to it. Just dank and darkness. The place smelled of rotted floorboards and deteriorating paint. The walls were peeling, and RICK could see puddles of what he thought must be urine on the floor in the corner of the stairwell.

  There were no ground-floor apartments, so he made his way up the first flight of stairs. These particular stairs wound their way up. They were tight and claustrophobic. RICK didn’t like being in a confined place. But he needed to keep his cool and get the job done. That was what he was there for. He was there to do a job. And in his mind, he was close to payday. After all his hard work, and all the laboring he’d done, he was finally near a big promotion. The promotion in question was a ticket into the serial killer hall of fame. He was certain that he was going to break records on his spree. So certain, in fact, that he penned a memoir before undertaking his work. He was going to send it off to one of the Big 5 publishers when he reached an acceptable quota of kills. He wanted to be taken seriously, after all. Having fewer than ten kills wasn’t going to get him any offers for a book deal. He knew that he’d need a hell of a lot more kills than ten to get anybody’s attention.

  But that wouldn’t be a problem for him. Getting attention would be the last of his worries. Plenty of people would be paying him attention. He just needed the right kind of attention. He needed the eyes of the world on him. But only if within those eyes there was a pair that could get him places. He needed that special perso
n who would see something within him. But he was a long way off from getting representation as the superstar killer he envisioned himself to be. Before all of that, he needed to put in work, as they would say around Charlestown.

  After winding up the staircase, he came to the third floor. Part of him wanted to be as close to the ground floor as possible. He wanted to be in and out. But once he arrived on the first, he decided to carry on to the second floor. But he didn’t feel excited about the second floor, either. He just continued up toward the third. But now he was on the third floor, that pit-of-the-stomach, bloodcurdling sensation he was after had struck. Finally some excitement. He felt good about the third floor. Something about this particular floor made his hair stand on end. So he stumbled out of the stairwell and into the third-floor hallway. The light fixtures on the walls were bright. Nobody was hanging outside their apartments. People did that a lot. He was counting on that. He wanted to spot his victim standing outside his door, maybe smoking a joint. Then he’d just run up to him and stick the knife in the guy’s ear. But, unfortunately for him, the hallways were empty. That meant that RANDOM RICK had some scouting to do.

  RICK stumbled down the hallway, still acting drunk. He was looking for any cue to strike. He was listening for somebody arguing. Or somebody crying. He had his ear to each door that he passed. The doors in question all looked battered and worn. They were made out of wood. He was afraid of getting splinters when he finally knocked. He smiled at the random thought of splinters as he got ready to pounce on his next kill.