After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1)

by Cary Allen Stone

  Most times, a significant other can’t deal with police work, but Lori remained interested in mine. She inquired about any progress in the investigation, and cared about my well being out on the streets. While she was there for me, I was there for her. She had been through a lot with her ex-husband, years of physical abuse against her, and sexual abuse of her daughter leading to Emily’s suicide. It was a heavy cross for her to bear. She loved being a flight attendant.

  On my way to Fairchild’s office, I walk past the cubicles A few familiar faces pop up. Wendy, our CID secretary, always asks about my arm. The faces inside Ed’s office aren’t smiling. A hydraulic lift couldn’t have raised the mood. I’m the last one to arrive as usual, and close the door behind me.

  “Now that we’re all here why don’t you get started?”

  Ed gestures toward Mika who is leaning against the wall. She looks at each of us with a somber face, and takes a moment before speaking.

  “As you know, it’s been quiet around here. Outside of the ‘runner’, there haven’t been any more leads on the Abrams’s investigation. Whoever is behind these killings has covered their tracks well. He knows police procedures.”

  Mika’s sad facial expression deepens.

  “The runner, whoever he is, or what he has to do with Abrams’s murder, remains a mystery. He could still be just some curious, weird guy that gets off on murder scenes.”

  She looks at Ed, then to Harmon, and finally at me.

  Harmon tries to console her.

  “Hey sometimes, it just doesn’t go the way we want. We covered all the bases, turned over all the rocks, and nothing.”

  Ed, the forever optimist, interjects.

  “It’s not over. We’re going to hear from the killer again. Sooner or later, Judgment Day will come.”

  Harmon breaks back in.

  “What about the Vidocq Society? You know, up in Philadelphia. Do you know about them?”

  “They’re forensic professionals who donate their deductive and scientific talents in order to thaw “cold” cases. They’re named after Eugene Francois Vidocq, a brilliant criminal mind turned detective. Their credo is Veritas Veritatum—The Truth of Truths.”

  “They don’t just do ‘cold’ cases. They also take on open homicides and disappearances. Hey, it’s worth a try,” Harmon says.

  “I’ll give them a call, guess it can’t hurt. I’m willing to try anything at this point. Anyone know a clairvoyant?”

  Mika looks defeated. I’ve never seen her like this before. It’s my turn to throw a lifeline in her direction.

  “Mika, maybe we should––”

  With a wave of her hand, Mika stops me.

  “Sometimes, it just isn’t going to happen. I can deal with it. It’s very frustrating not being able to complete the puzzle.”

  Maybe dad’s right, take the job and fall in love with you again.

  “Anyway, the Feds don’t want me to hang around with you guys forever, as much as I would like to. They think I’m picking up bad habits. So, I’m heading back to Quantico this afternoon. Maybe Wellington...”

  She drops her head and gives it a small shake.

  “He’s such a jerk.”

  The “jerk” part relieves the tension and we all chuckle, until Ed speaks up.

  “Why don’t you tell the FBI to stick it? Come back here and stay with us.”

  He walks over and gives Mika a hug. The rest of us line up.

  “That sounds real good right now, and I’m going to think real hard about it all the way back to the Academy.”

  She has lost a lot of confidence.

  “Who knows, because I can’t break this case, they may find someone more talented to take it on.”

  She held up her chin like her dad told her. Ed smiles and encourages Mika.

  “There isn’t anyone more talented in law enforcement than you Mika, they know it, and we know it.”

  “Thanks, Ed.”

  She gives back a half-smile. She looks at me and it feels as if we are breaking up all over again. I still have strong feelings for her, in spite of my feelings for Lori.

  I should have been there for her.

  Everyone begins shuffling uncomfortably around the room. Ed is the first to say goodbye, and again the rest of us follow. Finally, Mika tries to end the misery.

  “I’ve got to get going. I’ll call if anything comes up, unless it’s in Wellington’s pants.”

  Her half-hearted laugh fades.

  Thanks, everyone.”

  She grabs her things, including the FBI windbreaker hanging behind the door, and gives us a small wave before leaving Ed’s office.

  As I watch her walk, toward the doors of CID, I want to say something to stop her, but the double doors close, and the words never come out. I look at everyone in Ed’s office. The uneasy silence is a signal for us to return to the desks we’re rarely at. We failed this time. The murderer is free to kill again. All we can do is hope that if there is a next victim, some clue will put us hot on the trail. Harmon leans over to me, while I stare out of the window, lost in thought about Mika and better times.

  “Hungry?”

  “No, thirsty, I believe this one calls for an alcohol sedative.”

  * * *

  Leaving CID, I feel like empty. Harmon drags alongside me. Everyone knows to leave us alone. The two front doors of the precinct swing open, and we make our escape, just like kids bailing out of school. Outside in the natural light of the sun, I squint.

  “Where now?”

  Those two words are all I hear him, the rest are indiscernible. We keep walking until we reach his car. My inner detective is tugging on me. I go over the Abrams’ crime scene again in my head to see if we missed something. There is also the possibility there wasn’t anything to miss. The killer could just be that good. The only witness, if he could be called one, was an eighty-year-old man with poor eyesight, and a bad memory that thought he saw a silver foreign car leave the driveway about the time of Abrams’s murder. I’m not sure it was the same day. Harmon drives in silence until he utters one word. It has nothing to do with the case.

  “Sprites.”

  He asks if I know what they are.

  “They’re bright red flashes with blue tendrils, that blast out of the tops of thunderstorm cells for a few thousandths of a second, for up to sixty miles.”

  I had just read about them.

  “T-G-F’s are terrestrially-generated flashes, or upward lightning.”

  I try to remember what else the article said. Harmon goes philosophical.

  “There is some real cool stuff going on in this universe that we don’t pay attention to.”

  He means Mika, and my lament slips out before I can stop it.

  “I wish she had stayed.”

  “Hey man, you going to be okay?”

  Harmon glances several times at me.

  “Yeah fine, there’s no show here, keep moving.”

  I play it down and quickly assert.

  “It was just…good to be around her again, that’s all.”

  “I thought you were all hooked up with that Powers woman.”

  “I am, it’s just Mika and I go back a long way.”

  To prevent another sad Jake story, he changes the subject.

  “Too bad we couldn’t find the runner. He’s dirty. I can feel it. Why else did he take off? If he were just a fan, he would have grabbed a souvenir. He was fast, Jake––fast.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have time to grab a souvenir.”

  That’s all I can think of to say. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m burned out about it. I need some Lori-time. My demons aren’t around when she is. Maybe it’s time to reevaluate my career.

  “When are we going to stop for a few cold ones?”

  “We’re in the middle of the hood, Jake. A white boy, sorry, a red boy like you can get whacked out here for no reason, I’m looking for a safe place to—”

  7

  “STOP THE CAR!”
/>
  “WHY?”

  “STOP THE FRIGGING CAR.”

  The tires screech and the car skid into the curb. I brace with my wounded arm because I’m not wearing my seatbelt. To my right, between the crack house hotel and the Korean market, is a dilapidated bar with a hand-painted sign over the entrance that says “Chipper’s.” I look back at Harmon with a raised eyebrow and the devil on my face. Clint “Dirty Harry” Eastwood couldn’t have played my exit from the car better. Standing on the sidewalk, I smoothly look left and then right. Sizing up the territory and in plain view, I slowly undo the strap securing my holstered Glock. Harmon walks around the car and comes up behind me contemplating my apparent death wish. I confidently strut toward the door and stop to read the sign. The two brothers on either side of the door are in no mood for my being there. I step between them to enter the bar. Harmon’s hand grasps my shoulder.

  “Are you sure about this, Geronimo?”

  I stop and turn toward my backup.

  “A brave man once told me that if you are afraid to enter, you might never know the friend that awaits you inside.”

  “He’s dead now, right?”

  Harmon is more nervous than anyone.

  I smirk, but continue into hostile territory. It’s the kind of place, where they check you for weapons at the door. If you don’t have one, they give you one. When they see me, the loud base tones stop, the casual conversations stop, and the balls on the pool table roll to a stop. The bartender can’t believe his eyes.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  I can’t see Harmon behind me holding up his badge over my head. Nobody moves. I think I’m doing great, so I head for the bar and take a seat. Harmon puts his badge back into his pocket, and slowly sits down next to me. His head snaps in all directions, while I order.

  “I would like a cold beer.”

  I watch for movement in the mirror behind the bar, and see a few cue sticks come down off the rack.

  “Harmon, what’re you going to have?”

  The bartender has an impressive vocabulary. He shares his heightened curiosity in the form of a question.

  “Are you fucking crazy? Ain’t nobody going to let you walk in here for a beer, I suggest you get the fuck out, before they bust up my place, and you with it.”

  He spoke directly to Harmon at the beginning of the sentence, but directed the end of his sentence straight at me.

  “Do yourselves a favor, and get your black and white cop ass’s the hell out of here.”

  “THAT’S RED ASS, MISTER.”

  The startled bartender leans back aghast at my outburst.

  “NATIVE AMERICAN. Two cold ones for my partner and me.”

  I recapture control through some mystical anger management technique.

  “And while you’re at it, buy the house a round on me.”

  The silence is like standing outside during a new fallen snow. I think I hear Harmon contacting God behind me. He is either cussing me out, or damning me for all of eternity. I hope everyone in the bar heard the part about the next round, but all I hear is a deep, powerful, single voice from a table toward the back and to my left.

  “Give the red man, and the black man, one beer.”

  As I turn to acknowledge the man, into my field of vision comes the largest black man I have ever seen. He’s twice the size of Harmon. He head is shaved. On either side of him sits a skanky whore. He has gold teeth from one corner of his mouth to the other, with a diamond stud in both front teeth. His Armani suit must have cost at least a year’s salary. Two sawed-off shotguns are on the table in front of him, along with one pink umbrella drink. With the snap of two of his fingers, both the size of legs, the music starts and another bank shot is made on the pool table. The bartender pours our beer. Speaking with trepidation, Harmon quietly gives me the man’s history.

  “His name is ‘Chipper’ as in wood chipper. He’s the man here, proprietor of the establishment. Rep is he cuts his victim enough until the soon to be deceased bleeds out then it’s a ride through the machinery. You think whoever killed Abrams is a badass. There’s a bad ass. He knows it, too. And, he knows ain’t nobody going to do anything about it.”

  The urgency in Harmon’s voice intensifies.

  “The man spent a dime, ten long, hard years in deep solitary confinement. He killed several of his cellmates while in the general population. They couldn’t prove it. The Warden wanted him gone. They just quietly let him go. ‘Silent parole’ they called it.”

  My initial arrogance and demonstration of fearlessness dissipates in light of Harmon’s revelations. Reality torpedoes my testosterone level.

  “And listen to this red man, you can’t kill this guy, He’s been shot twenty-eight times, stabbed sixteen, strangled once. They even tried to blow him up. He keeps coming back. When cops are ordered to take him in for a violation, they resign.”

  “Let me get this straight, you’re saying there’s a pretty good chance our partnership could end right here?”

  “Oh, I thought you were just plain ignorant, but you’re stupid, too?”

  He shakes his head in mock ridicule.

  I drink my beer, but try to be cool about it. I figure if it’s my last, I might as well enjoy it. I thank the bartender, who returns a derogatory social comment, as I toss a handful of cash on the bar. Standing, I turn with my hands visible to everyone in the bar. My partner leaves half a mug of ale behind. Harmon scratches at the back of his head, while I look directly at “the man” and nod a thank you.

  “Don’t come back here.”

  It is his terse warning. He points at the door. I walk backwards, but facing Chipper. Harmon’s back is against mine, as he takes the lead toward the door. As we step outside, we are surprised by the new gang-tagged paint on Harmon’s unmarked. He drives me home. I don’t have much to say because the last thing I want is for some girly whimper to squeak out from my mouth. I sense Harmon isn’t in the mood for clever banter anyway. Climbing out of the car in front of my apartment, I throw Harmon a wisecrack.

  “Good night honey, call me later?”

  Harmon loses it.

  “You’re one crazy bastard, DON’T EVER do that to me again.”

  After watching him drive away, I go inside. My answer machine light is blinking and there is a message from Lori. She’s going to see her daughter, and would catch up with me after. She also said she missed me. I think about calling her. I think about Mika. I think about “Chipper” and how I could have been recycled mulch.

  * * *

  The face in the mirror refuses to tell me where that young, energetic guy is now. I feel weak. A steady wind could easily blow me down. My partner called and offered a ride, but I told him I was going to “work out” by walking in. It isn’t that far, and I need the exercise. Since Mika left, there’s no rush to get there. I decide to secure my tie later as I slide my holstered Glock into the back of my pants. It wasn’t possible to describe just how glorious a morning it was from inside the apartment, with the shades pulled down. Burly, cotton-textured clouds float over my head and mares’ tails drift through the alto-altitudes. The sun is already starting to singe the cobalt hue out of the sky. The foliage is painted in deep shades of southern green. As I walk, a gentle breeze wisps past my face.

  Chipper didn’t kill me yesterday.

  I wonder who will. Maybe it’d be a deranged suspect, or a revenge-filled prison escapee, or maybe it’d be one of the militia girl’s compatriots. The butt of my Glock digs into the small of my back. The house is still blocks away, and for some reason the walk feels farther then I remember it. My body is aching and in sad physical shape. As I pass the newsstand, I toss a few quarters at Sylvester, the newspaper guy, for a morning paper. He looks like he has lived two lifetimes and yet he keeps going. Tucking the newspaper under my arm, I pass by the parking lot and scrutinize it to see who is already in. Harmon’s car is taking up two spaces. “Pig” is still splattered across the hood, along with other unsavory social slang, from
the night before. Fairchild’s car isn’t in his space, that’s good because now I won’t get the “Where’ve you been, Roberts?” interrogation.

  After climbing all three floors of “Cop Mountain” in the only cop shop in the country without an elevator, I head for my desk. A pencil ascends into the air above the cubicle next to mine. It does several ascending rotations like it’s in the Pencil Olympics. On its descent, I snatch it in flight. A head pokes up above the cubicle wall.

  “Hey, that’s my pencil.”

  As I toss it back, the number two is snatched out of the air like a frog tonguing a buzzing fly.

  I think about Harmon Blackwell. He’s not only my partner. He’s my best friend. He never loaned me money, or donated a kidney for me, but I love him like a brother. I never found much value in material possessions. I have Harmon. He keeps me going in this crazy, screwed-up world.

  “You beat the man in, you’re so lucky, Roberts.”

  Harmon chuckles. It is a boisterous, devilish kind of laugh.

  “It’s a good thing too, because I’m not covering for your sorry ass anymore.”

  That’s what he says, but isn’t what he means. Partners understand all of the intricacies of mood swings and personality dysfunctions.

  “Any new corpses lying around? I want something to do, I’m bored.”

  My feet find a place between some reports on my desk. The usual anthill activity prevalent in the office any other day of the week, is nonexistent today.

  “No body knows…” one detective interjects with a song.

  “How are we going to justify our very existence? We’re investigators, we need something to investigate.”

  I complain while my sore arm pinches just to remind me about the real world. Harmon leans across my desk. His grin is wide.

  “Chipper called looking for you.”