15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  “You know what we’ve got in there. I told you on the phone,” San replied, rather annoyed.

  “Well, I just wanted to clarify, that was all.”

  He laughed.

  “Yeah, clarify that I forget about your downhill spiral into oblivion, by any chance?”

  “Exactly,” I said, punching him in the arm once again.

  Santiago led me to the big bay door. He bent down and edged his way under the half-ajar sheet metal that seemed to roll when it went up. I stood there and stared for a while. I heard him call my name, so I also bent down and squeezed under the flappy metal. Once I entered the warehouse, I knew that the body was close. Something to do with the feel of the air. The way it clung to me. Like a warning signal that something horrific was around the corner. I spotted Santiago jumping to the floor. It was a few feet below where I stood. I did the same and met him on the warehouse floor. A spotlight glistened in the distance, and something lay in the middle of the spotlight on the ground below. It was bright red. It looked box-shaped. I gulped.

  “You sure it’s him?” I asked.

  We started to walk toward the box under the spotlight. As I got closer, I instantly knew that I didn’t need my previous question answered.

  “You tell me,” Santiago said as we came to a stop a few inches from the box. I gulped once again.

  “Not again,” I exclaimed.

  Santiago shook his head as if to say that what sat below me was real, and this was all happening whether I liked it or not.

  “I’m afraid this is a repeat, Frank. The Machete Man is back.”

  “But he’s supposed to be dead. He was killed by the two sole survivors of his death dungeon. Don’t you remember?” I said.

  “Yeah, of course I do. But he’s back. Or somebody pretending to be him is back.”

  “Well, we have a copycat killer, then.”

  “Not all copycat killers are pretenders, Frank. Maybe, just maybe, this is the real Machete Man. The one before this one could be a decoy. Like it was leading up to all of this.”

  I shook my head and said, “You have a blood-stained Christmas box, and you’re jumping to conclusions. This is a simple copycat case. This is nothing but a repeat.”

  We both stood there and stared. Stared at the bright red Christmas box. The lid half on like the last time. The slight blood staining on the floor, just like the last time.

  But this time something was different.

  “No severed feet or arms?” I said.

  “No, I’m afraid our guy has graduated to the real thing.”

  I knelt down and flicked the lid off the box. It made a slight squelching sound as it hit the ground. I held my breath and tried not to gag. But it was hard.

  A severed head isn’t anything pretty to look at. But this one was. Or at least it had been before it was severed.

  “Blonde,” I remarked.

  “Just like the last time. He likes the pretty girls. But they have to be blonde. At least it’s something to work with.”

  I stood up and cracked my neck. A bad sleeping position was making my muscles tense.

  “But it can’t be. He’s dead,” I said.

  Santiago patted me on the shoulder and smiled. It was a genuine smile. One that I needed.

  “Things change, Frank. This may be a repeat, but this time we’re axing the show.”

  I nodded. The show was indeed real. The Machete Man was back. Or at least his doppelganger was. And oh, boy, did he like to put on a show.

  Two

  The big and bulky tall man was looking at himself in the mirror. He was in the basement. A slightly dull red light was casting its crimson shadow on his face as he looked at the deep scars that stretched across his neck and cheeks. It had been a long while since he had looked at himself in the mirror. Since then, things had changed. He had grown stronger. He was no longer jumping the gun. Nor was he overly excited. No, this time things had really changed. Changed for the better.

  He continued to look at himself in the mirror. The changes in him were evident as he let a few teeth show and turned them into a smile. He was happy, which in itself was a change. Ever since that fateful night two years ago, he had been nothing but a shell of his former self. A coward who winced at the thought of sunlight. A man who trembled at the memories of his near-death experience.

  But his appearance and attitude weren’t the only things that had changed. He now had a partner. A partner who was able to make him think clearly. Act more quickly. And kill smarter. He himself wasn’t much of a talker, so he appreciated that his new partner did most of the planning. It was as if his partner was the only person in the world who understood him and his calling. He was destined for big things. Two years ago, that was a hitch. A small bump in the road. But now, now things had changed.

  And by God, they changed for the better.

  “Eli, stop looking at yourself in the mirror like that. Haven’t you heard that vanity clouds the mind?”

  The big and bulky man winced at the sound of his partner’s voice. He could see his reflection in the mirror. It, too, was shrouded in red, coming from the dim light on the wall. He quickly turned around and smiled at his partner. He was older. Much smaller. Dainty and unbecoming. The total opposite of what he was. So they were a perfect match.

  “Taking pride in one’s appearance isn’t going to cloud my mind,” Eli said.

  His partner smiled and extended his long bony hand toward Eli’s shoulder. He gripped it gently and said, “Very well said. I see your book learning is coming along nicely, which is great to see. You remember what I told you, right?”

  Eli nodded and said, “Brute strength of the body cannot be matched by brute strength of the mind.”

  “Exactly,” his partner said, taking his hand off Eli’s shoulder and turning his back on him. He quickly walked over to a metal table that was propped up against the wall. It had wheels on its legs and squeaked a little as Eli’s partner leaned on it. Eli watched and saw his partner pick something up off the table. It was shiny, and the red hue coming off the light fixture on the wall gave it a menacing sheen. He held it up toward Eli as he walked toward him. Eli grabbed what was in his partner’s hand. It felt heavy in his grip.

  “You know what to do with this, right?” his partner asked. Eli nodded and looked down at his right hand. In it, a machete weighed heavily between his fingers. The end of the sharp knife tilted slightly to the floor. He levelled it out a tad and breathed in deeply. He then raised his head and looked at his partner, who was wide-eyed and donned a massive smile.

  “I know what to do with this. Just like the last time. Find a girl. Catch her. Kill her.”

  Three

  Chief Shaw wasn’t happy. That much I could tell. It wasn’t that hard, after all, seeing that his face was red and his cheeks were puffed out. He looked like one of those Japanese puffer fish that Homer Simpson nearly succumbed to all those years ago. But the difference was that Chief Shaw wasn’t a cartoon character, and nobody would survive this tale.

  I would be lying if I said what happened in this case was fit for Christmas. Hell, I’d be lying if I said it was fit for any time of the year. But unfortunately for me, and for you, murder doesn’t stop when Jesus’ birthday comes along. Nor does it cease to be gruesome. In fact, I’d argue that Christmas is the one time of the year when the wannabe killers out there decide to make a mark. They tend to go a little overboard during the holidays. They start messing around with calling cards devoted to Christian literature, or even being inspired by passages in the Bible. But they don’t spread joy. They spread death. And I’m afraid it is becoming a little too common.

  “Another fucking Christmas killer?” Shaw spat. He was sitting behind his desk, while San and I sat opposite him. We’d become accustomed to being shouted at in his office. The walls were still stained yellow. The room still smelled of liquor and smoke, and Shaw’s face was still red and puffed out.

  Some things just don’t change.

  “We don�
�t know if this is a Christmas killer as such,” Santiago let out. His voice sounded low and defeated, as if the thought of such a thing was making him feel like we’d already lost this one.

  “Santiago’s right. We don’t know if this is the real deal. Could be a coincidence,” I said, deciding to pipe up and support my long-time partner and friend.

  “Sure!” the Chief bellowed as he got up from his seat behind the desk and raised his hands to his head. He was squeezing down on his temples. Looked like he was in pain. “Why not?” Shaw continued.

  I was a little dumbfounded, so I asked, “Why not what?”

  His face went red once again. His hands dropped to his sides, and he collapsed all his weight into his chair. “Sure it’s not a Christmas phantom!” Shaw said, leaning into his desk and reaching for a stray glass of whiskey. “I mean, what else could a severed head in a gift box imply? An Easter phantom?”

  We didn’t say anything. We just sat there, staring at our boss.

  “Or maybe it’s that Jewish holiday. The one with the armadillo. You know, Hanukah? The Hanukah phantom?” Shaw continued.

  I decided I needed to say something, just in case someone was listening outside the office and heard that sentence leave my boss’s mouth. “Sir, there is no Hanukah armadillo. That was an episode of Friends. Not actual fact. Jewish people don’t celebrate anything armadillo-related.”

  I could hear Santiago laughing beside me. Now wasn’t the right time to burst into hysterics, but if anybody was going to, then history showed Santiago was usually the one to do so.

  “Enough!” Shaw shouted abruptly. Both San and I stopped looking at each other, and turned our attention back to our boss. He was still steaming, and we weren’t making things any better.

  “I want you to get out on those streets and check every damn nook and cranny for anything Christmas murder–related. I mean it, guys! No b.s. I want you to catch this guy before it hits the news. We’re stopping him before he even gets started.”

  I shook my head and said, “You can’t honestly expect San and me to capture a killer who hasn’t left a single bit of evidence in a day?”

  “I’m afraid I ain’t asking, McKenzie. I’m telling!”

  “How the hell are we going to check every nook and cranny? We can’t just randomly show up at places and check for a machete-wielding psycho!” Santiago hissed.

  “Who said anything about it being random? You two are going on ride-alongs! I want you to join the uniforms responding to emergency calls. When you get one you think sounds promising, then you ride along with the responding unit to the scene of the crime, and hopefully whatever is left at the scene can be used to capture this prick!”

  I nodded and turned to look at Santiago. He had the same look on his face that I was trying to supress. As plans went, this wasn’t such a bad idea. It was quick and effective, but it could also be a waste of time. Especially if this guy was as good as the last one.

  “What if he doesn’t raise any alarm bells? What if he kills everything he sees?” Santiago asked.

  Shaw smiled and said, “If this is anything like the last time, there will be calls. After all, this is all a game to the killer. He isn’t taking this seriously. It’s all a damn game. A head in a Christmas box. Last time it was hands and feet. There won’t be a next time, though. This time — this time we return the gift to sender.”

  Four

  Diane, Mary, and Isabel were standing on Platform A at Heath Street Station. They’d been standing and waiting for a while now. None of the three young ladies had checked their phones for the time, nor the watch on their wrists. Usually when a person or group of people are waiting impatiently for something, checking the time is one of the first things you do. But this particular group of women didn’t care whether the train was late or not. They were too busy talking and laughing to notice the locomotors tardiness or the fact that they were being watched by someone nearby.

  “You think Rose will ever leave that asshole Lennie?” Diane pondered out loud. The two other women started to laugh a little as all three of them formed a sort of crude semicircle.

  “The guy’s got a big you-know-what. I doubt I’d leave him!” Isabel said. The group of friends continued to cackle into the Christmas Eve air. Condensation was escaping their mouths as they caught up and told jokes. All three of them were having a great time. Spirits were high, and the alcohol had been flowing long before they reached Platform A on Heath Street. There was a rule regarding drinking in the station or its surrounding areas. But none of these women cared for that particular rule much, and all three of them were guzzling some form of alcohol. They were dressed in evening wear and had just returned from a work function. The office gossip was all that was leaving their lips. Conversations about the office Lothario. A few tidbits about the office slut, and even a cautionary tale about their shift manager. As time continued to tick away, the conversation became more joyous.

  Heath Street Station was anything but glamorous. Its walls were caked in old paint that had cracks and craters on its surface. The platforms all had chunks missing out of them, and the air smelled damp. But that didn’t stop Diane, Mary, or Isabel from having a good time. However, their good time was close to coming to an end. Little did they know that a man was watching them from afar. He was positioned behind a pillar around fifty feet away from the girls. He stood on the same platform they were on, but he was in a whole different world. A world where people paid for their sins. A world where blood was currency, and he was mighty rich. A world in which there were no limitations to his depravity.

  He stood there for a few more minutes. The timing had to be perfect. He was all zoned in. His eye whites were no longer prominent. It seemed that his pupils had taken up most of the real estate of his corneas. He looked like he had two massive buttons for eyes. Like he was high on ecstasy. But he wasn’t on drugs. The only high he was on was the rush before the kill. And the rush was always pleasant. He could feel his pulse in the tips of his fingers. His heart was pounding. His lip was quivering. His legs were vibrating. He had his hands wrapped around the pillar. He could feel every groove and dip on the surface of the massive support beam. It felt pleasant to him. Something that he wanted to hold on to forever. But he knew that he couldn’t waste any more time. It was now or never.

  “Now,” he said under his breath. He brushed his mouth dry. As he did so, the skin on his hand touched the disfigured skin on his face. He flinched a little. Sometimes he’d forget that he was scarred. Those were the good days. But today — today was a bad day.

  The man behind the pillar didn’t waste any more time. He took three massive strides toward the women. As he got closer, he could hear them speak more clearly. They were laughing and joking. It brought a smile to his face. He knew that as he gripped his machete in his right hand, they wouldn’t be laughing for much longer. And, sure enough, he was right. Because seconds later, he reached the group of women. None of them had noticed him, which was ironic, seeing that he was such a large man. But they noticed the blood that sprayed them as he swung for one of the women’s necks. He had struck her from behind, and the machete had come in at an angle. It caught her neck and split it at a ninety-degree angle, like a lumberjack does to a great birch.

  There were screams and more blood. But the Machete Man didn’t stop. He continued to strike hard and fast. All three women were headless within three minutes. Platform A had a pool of blood where they were standing only minutes before. The Machete Man stood there and looked down upon the spoils of his war on Christmas. He took a knee next to one of the decapitated bodies. He watched as the blood drained from the massive open wound where her head once was. He dipped his finger into the pool of blood and swirled it around. He removed his finger and admired the bloodied tip of his digit. He nodded and stood up. His work was almost done. But he had one last thing left to do.

  The Machete Man reached into his back dungaree pocket and pulled out something. He read whatever was written on it and smiled o
nce again. He dropped it onto the ground and walked away. As he did so, it floated mindlessly in the crimson mass that caked the platform.

  Whoever was to find this mess wouldn’t ever forget what they saw. Some things can’t be erased from memories, while others can’t be erased from time itself.

  Five

  The sirens were blaring at a decibel level my hangover couldn’t deal with. I was trying not to make it so obvious that I was having trouble stomaching this ride, but Santiago could see straight through me, and I guessed he didn’t like what he saw.

  “You need to get your fucking act together, Frank. You wouldn’t be feeling like shit and looking worse than shit if you hadn’t spent all night getting stoned and eating potato chips.”

  “What I eat isn’t of concern to you, Santiago.”

  That was all I could manage, to be honest. If I tried to muster up some more words, I was certain that I’d be vomiting all over the back seat of the police cruiser. We had been riding in the uniformed patrol car for three minutes. We were summoned to the vehicle when we received a call about a bad smell. So we jumped into the back of a quick-response unit and got on our way. The only thing that was slightly odd about this was the fact that San and I were seated in the back, like criminals. There were two officers in the front. Both males. One driving, obviously, while the other was running us through his thoughts on what was going on. But I still couldn’t shake off the feeling that this whole “ride-along” business that Shaw had come up with was nothing short of horse shit.

  “So that’s what I think is going on,” I heard the police officer sitting in the passenger seat say. I didn’t hear the rest, so I nodded emphatically and said, “Well, that’s quite an imagination you have there, Officer.”

  The driver started to laugh and said, “He sure does, although I wouldn’t say it’s much of an imagination.”

  The officer in the passenger seat looked a little hurt by the comments made by his partner. I could see that it had touched a nerve, so, me being me, I decided to investigate a little and get down to the bottom of this mystery….the mystery being the awkward tension between the two uniformed officers, that is. Especially since I didn’t have much hope that this call we were responding to would lead to our psycho killer.