Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  Thirty-two years is a long time. Just not long enough…

  * * *

  Thirty-two years ago, Leon knew when to hide. Anytime his father opened a bottle of liquor. He’d known it for years, just as he knew the burning lash of a leather belt followed the accidental breaking of a dish or a glass. Just part of his world. Accepted as normal.

  Until a day in late May. The day everything changed. The day Leon came home from school to find his mother backed against the refrigerator, his father’s hands wrapped in a vice grip around her neck.

  “How long you been screwing Bill Arnold? How long? Always knew you were a whore! Little bastard’s not even mine, is he?” His father’s hands jerked, and his mother’s body shook like a ragdoll. “Shoulda made you abort him when I told you to!”

  Leon raced across the kitchen. His father’s hand slashed out, and he dropped to the floor. A heavy work boot kicked. His nose cracked, a stomach-churning sound.

  Half-blinded, he saw his father latch onto a kitchen knife. The blade plunged into his mother's chest, again and again. And again. Chunking like a watermelon chopped into quarters. One more flash of the knife and her throat opened up in a red grin. Blood showered out. His father dropped the knife and staggered out of the kitchen.

  Leon crawled toward her. She gasped for air, her lips quivering, opening, and shutting. No words. Just the bubbles. Tiny bubbles formed along her throat, popping, replaced by more red bubbles. He pulled her arm around him and watched as the light passed from her eyes. The last of her life’s essence splattered warmly onto his face. A final, loving mother’s caress.

  They found Leon around midnight, huddled against his mother’s corpse, her dead arms wrapped around him.

  * * *

  Freezing, Leon got out of bed. He stripped off his sweat drenched t-shirt and tossed it to the floor. He reached into the dresser drawer, fumbling for the comforting lump underneath the t-shirts. His transistor radio. The one his mother had given to him.

  Leon turned the radio on, switching the dial around until settling on a jazz station. He set it on his nightstand and crawled back in bed.

  Rachel was right. He did have a seizure earlier. A bad one. And he hadn’t had a seizure in over fifteen years. The fact someone he cared a great deal about was an abuse victim brought everything flooding back again.

  Fifteen years since his last seizure, and he knew what it foretold. The migraines would become more prominent, followed by more seizures. There was only one cure. He had to ignore the possible consequences and take care of the Travis problem. One way or another.

  As the music drifted through the room, Leon curled into a fetal position, hugging his knees to his chest.

  For the first time in twenty-five years, Leon cried out for his mother.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Helluva’ thing. It’s a helluva thing, Sidarski.” Despite the winter chill, perspiration dotted Riley’s forehead beneath the bill of his ball cap.

  “Yeah, it is.” After the call came in earlier, Sidarski punted breakfast. Not even time for a cup of coffee, for God’s sake. Now, staring at the woman’s head, Sidarski knew lunch was off the table as well. “Who found the head?”

  Riley hitched a thumb behind him. “Some homeless guy phoned it in.”

  Along the waterfront, several homeless men watched the proceedings from behind the cordoned-off section. “What’d he say?”

  Riley flipped his cap off with a dramatic flourish and shrugged. “You know how they are. Guy’s barely coherent. Doesn’t know anything.”

  “Mm. I still want to talk to him.”

  “Be my guest and good goddamn luck. So, is this your missing woman?”

  Sidarski studied the head nestled in the mud. The water had paled and bloated her face but he could still identify her. Barely. Not quite the looker she used to be. A cool wind gusted, prompting Sidarski to button his overcoat. “Yeah it’s her. Or at least part of her. Rebecca Sturgeon. Is this where the head was found?”

  “No. We fished it out of the river. Looks like it was put into a paint canister and tossed into the water. We haven’t found the lid yet.”

  Sidarski read the printing on the canister next to the head. “Royale Paint. Aren’t they a local paint wholesaler?”

  “Yeah. Kansas City, Kansas.”

  “Do you know if any retail outlets sell their paint?”

  “Beats me.” Riley snapped on his gloves and knelt. He tipped the head over with a pencil. “Take a peek, Sidarski. It’s a pretty messy cut. I won’t know for sure until later, but it looks to me like a circular saw or an electric saw of some sort was used.”

  “Huh.”

  “Kinda’ like what the Denver Decapitator did back in Denver.” Riley looked up, shading his eyes from the morning sunlight. Sidarski’s stomach burned, both from lack of food and Riley’s implications.

  “Riley, are you saying you think this is the work of the Denver Decapitator?”

  “Hey, not my words. I just said it’s similar.”

  “But it could be the Denver Decapitator?”

  After Riley stood, he brushed his hands together in a job-well-done-and-completed manner. “Well, I guess it could be.”

  “Let’s keep that theory to ourselves for now. If you mention the Denver Decapitator, the media will start a shit-storm, and we’ll be covered in Feds before lunchtime.”

  “Um, too late.”

  “Whaddaya’ mean?”

  “The Feds already called a few minutes ago. They heard about the head. Wanted to know what the cut looked like. I told ‘em. They’ll be here later today. Sorry.”

  “Great.”

  “So, should we drag the river? I guess we sorta’ need to find the rest of her.”

  Sidarski stared out at the waves rippling across the water’s surface and shivered along with them. “You kidding me? It’s a damn big river. We don’t have the time, money, or manpower. Let the Feds do it. It’s why they make the big bucks.”

  Detective Sherman stepped forward, manhandling a Danish. A splotch of fruit filling slipped down onto his shirt, looking like a bloody bullet hole. “Dammit.” He licked his stubby finger and dabbed at the spot. “What do you got?”

  “See for yourself.” Sidarski gestured toward the head. “My missing woman, Rebecca Sturgeon, is no longer missing.”

  “Ah, you get a little head this morning, Sidarski?”

  “Funny, Sherman.” Vulgar, immature, and lazy, Shermanwas the sort of cop Sidarski didn’t tolerate well.

  “What’s the matter? Get up on the wrong side of the head this morning?”

  “Good one, Shermie,” said Riley.

  One more reason Sidarski hated Sherman; grown men shouldn’t be called “Shermie.” “Sherman, looks like you’re going to be playing host to some Feds this afternoon.” Sidarski grinned, relishing Sherman’s obvious discomfort.

  “Why do I gotta’ do it?”

  “The way it goes. I’ve got seniority and some grown-up police work to do.”

  “Yeah, whatever, Sidarski.”

  “Sherman, you get a chance to look into the matter I asked you about?”

  “You mean Owen…what’s his face…” Even though he tried to snap his fingers for effect, the Danish grease made them slide silently against each other. “…Gribble?”

  Sidarski waited for the inevitable bitching fit.

  “I don’t know why you can’t do your own legwork, Sidarski.”

  “You know, Sherman, I’ve got one missing person and now a murder victim. What do you have? Besides pastries and bad jokes?”

  Sherman puffed out his barrel chest almost as far as his beer belly. “Whatever. Your boy has no priors. Nothing at all.”

  “I guess it doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Whaddaya’ like him for, Sidarski?”

  “Not sure yet. Let’s just call him…a person of interest for now.”

  And Sidarski found Gribble more interesting by the moment.

  * * *

 
; The commotion on the riverfront jarred Robert awake. A watery haze obscured his vision. Bleary red and liquid blue lights blinked down below. Distorted voices squawked on radios. His waterfront brethren gathered to watch the police parade taking place in his living room.

  When he sat up, his leg involuntarily jerked, knocking over the whisky bottle. He grabbed for it, unable to remember if he’d finished it off. Too late. He watched with remorse as the bottle clattered down the embankment.

  Still, all in all, his thirty-six-hour drinking binge had been a doozy. At least from what he could remember. But as his mother used to say, “All good things must come to an end.” He never quite understood the saying either until now.

  A thought occurred to him because hope springs eternal. Something else his mother used to say. He patted his pocket to see if he had any cash left. Good. Twenty-one dollars, just enough for one more night. The kid had laid down some serious cash.

  Robert stood, found his footing unreliable, and plopped back down. Reaching into his cloud-enshrouded mind, he plucked at a vague recollection, just on the cusp of grasping it. Clarity slowly edged in as the fog parted. The kid wanted him to do something. What did he want him to do? Something about the cops. Something about…Owen Grizzard. No. Owen Gribble. The kid wanted Robert to tell the cops what he saw a couple nights ago. Owen Gribble dumping trash into the Missouri River.

  Robert had every intention of honoring the agreement before he embarked on his latest drinking spree. He prided himself on not being a welcher. “The King of the Missouri River” is what everyone called him and for good reason. He was a principled man. However when the mighty drink called…well, sir, priorities must be set. And without rules, a man may as well be an animal.

  Now, like a blessing from above, the cops had been brought to him. No need to waste money or time on a phone call.

  Robert stood up again and steadied himself. Putting one step forward, his arthritic ankle wobbled, creating an unhealthy popping sound. Better safe than sorry, he sat and scooted down the cement like a kid on a dry slide. At the bottom, he forced himself to his feet and staggered toward the policemen’s ball.

  Two cops stood in front of a taut line of yellow tape. They appeared to be either bored or in the middle of a quiet, yet heated, conversation. Hard to tell, really.

  “Hey! I got somethin’ to tell ya,” Robert said while wobbling toward them. “Hey!” His feet gave out, and he splashed into the mud. Pushing himself to his knees, he waited a beat for his world to stop spinning.

  “Get a load of this guy.” One of the cops sniggered and hooked a thumb back at Robert.

  Robert raised his head, panting like a dog. “Got somethin’ to say.”

  “We gotta’ get rid of him. Pathetic.”

  The other cop reached into his wallet and pinched out a five-dollar bill. “Give this to him and tell him to go get a burger or something.”

  “Here, old-timer.” The cop handed Robert the cash. “Get lost. And go get some food.”

  Robert tucked the bill into his coat. It nearly made him forget his mission. “I gotta tell you somethin’.”

  “Yeah, sure, old-timer.” The cop yanked the neck of Robert’s coat, as if afraid to touch his skin, and helped him to his feet.

  “Owen…Gribble…”

  “Uh-huh.” The cop patted Robert on the back, ushering him down the waterfront.

  “Owen Gribble…threw somethin’ big…into the river couple nights back.”

  “Yep, whatever you say. Get some food. Go on now, I mean it. Get lost.” With a farewell shove, the cop retreated, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Did you hear what I said? Owen Gribble…threw somethin’ big—”

  It took him a minute to realize the cop was out of listening—and caring—range. And Robert’s throat felt too ravaged to attempt any more shouting. He considered going back and forcing them to listen. Then he marveled at the five-dollar bill, shrugged, and thought differently.

  * * *

  “Dude! The cops are here!” Cody didn’t need the Mullet’s warning. Watching the Latino plant workers bounce out the back door, he knew Five-O had entered the house.

  “Whadda’ they want?” asked Cody.

  “You see all them illegals haul ass outta’ here?”

  A valid reason, maybe, but it still made Cody uncomfortable. Best not to take it at face value. After mentally retracing his steps over the last few days, he knew he hadn’t made any mistakes. They couldn’t be here for him. No way.

  When his LMI phone rang, he nearly jumped out of his coveralls. He walked down the handicapped ramp away from the rest of the smokers.

  “Yeah?” Turning his back on the sunlight, he sought refuge in the adjacent building’s shadow.

  “Mr. Spangler.” Wyngarden sounded different. Not as in-your-face smarmy.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been, ah, instructed to move up the timeline on our mutual Kansas problem.”

  “It’s only been a couple days. Give me some time, yo.”

  “Mr. Spangler, time is of the essence now. Are you aware your…special parcel has been found in the Missouri River?”

  Cody spun on his heels. On tiptoes, he peered into the manager’s office window. A bald fat man sat across from his boss. All suited up and definitely a cop. “No. I didn’t know.” His heart fluttered, a bird attempting to flee its cage.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. It might, ah, behoove you to listen to the news some time.”

  “Yeah, behoove this, Wyngarden!” Cody grabbed his crotch even though he knew Wyngarden couldn’t see him. Sure made him feel better, though. When he noticed his coworkers checking him out, he turned back to the brick wall. “I listen to the news.”

  “Yes, well…ahem. My superiors tell me this entire operation needs to be wrapped up soon. Do you understand me, Mr. Spangler? It has to be wrapped up right away.” The first time Cody ever heard Wyngarden raise his voice and it still didn’t make him intimidating.

  “Yeah, yeah. Got it. Right away. I’m on it.”

  “For your benefit—and for mine, Mr. Spangler—I sincerely hope you are.” He hung up in his usual rude-ass way.

  The bald cop had migrated outside, questioning the smokers. He hefted his double chin toward Cody like they were old pals and strolled toward him.

  Cody eyed his extended hand with suspicion. “Hello, I’m Detective Sidarski with the Barton Police Department. Are you Toby Grainger?”

  After Cody blew the last plume of smoke out, he dropped his cigarette butt to the gravel. “Yeah, that’s me. ‘S’up?”

  Sidarski finally gave up and withdrew his hand. “Oh, just doing a little routine work. Slow day at the office. I understand you’re new here.”

  “Heard right. Just been on the job for—I dunno—a week or so, I guess.” Cody met his iron-cold gaze as best he could.

  “Uh-huh. Where’d you work before this?”

  “I’m, uh, new to Kansas. Just did a bunch of odd jobs and crap back home.”

  “Where was home?”

  “Denver.”

  Sidarski’s smile sagged low while his eyebrows arched high. “Denver, you say?”

  “Yeah, Denver. So what?” Cody wished Sidarski’d get to the point already. He knew his type. Always dancing around the issue, playing games, but he left his balls at home.

  “Nothing. It’s just funny how coincidences happen sometime. It’s the second time someone brought up Denver to me today and…” He consulted his watch. Cody saw it as another waste-of-time trick. Cops are paid by the hour, after all. “…it’s not even noon, yet. Funny.”

  “Yeah, hilarious. Look, I gotta get back to work.”

  “Mr. Grainger, would you have any reason to take a paint canister off the premises?”

  “No! I mean, why in hell would I want to? It’s not like they’re worth anything.”

  “Yes, well…thank you for your time.”

  Cody brushed by him and strolled up the ramp. “No problem, yo.” />
  “Excuse me?”

  Cody whirled around. “What?”

  Sidarski stood at the bottom of the ramp, stroking the hand rail. “Would you mind repeating what you said?”

  “All I said was ‘no problem.’ What?”

  “Nothing. I just thought you said something else.” Sidarski smiled, looking too damn smug for Cody’s tastes. “Good day, Mr. Grainger.”

  Once inside, Cody raced to the window. The cop hadn’t moved, still smiling.

  What the hell, yo?

  * * *

  Try as he might, Cody couldn’t shake the way the cop looked at him earlier. As many times as he went over their conversation, Cody knew he hadn’t screwed up. Absolutely knew it. But the way the cop stared at him…

  The discovery of the head really bugged him. Talk about bad timing. Soon enough the cops might put two and two together and realize the Denver Decapitator had relocated. Which sucked, really. Sure, he enjoyed the Decapitator’s notoriety, but truth be told, he’d entertained the notion of being branded with a new Kansas nickname. “The Kansas Karver,” maybe. “The Kansas Kut-up?” Kinda’ lame, though. Nothing beat “The Denver Decapitator.” Truly badass.

  Sudden enlightenment bashed a light bulb over his skull. His blood ran cold. He’d told the cop he lived in Denver. And with Sidarski asking about the paint canister, it was obvious they found his can and traced it back to Royale Paint. Damn it.

  No worries, though, his constant mantra. He had a built in comfort zone should he fall. LMI had his back. Their best interests were to keep him out of prison. Hell, they needed him.

  Still, it sucked.

  No more playing. Time to wrap up his problems, stick a bow on it, and call it pretty.

  He couldn’t believe it took so long to come up with his new plan. So goddamned ingenious it’d force even Wyngarden to prance off his pedestal and bow down to him. So simple, so…awesome.