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

by Cary Allen Stone

  He slowly opens his glassy eyes and coughs up more blood. He blinks several times until he can see her. Two words pass through his lips, but there is no sound to accompany them. There is no mistake about what they are.

  “Thank you.”

  A millisecond later Gates is dead. The only regret any of us has, except for Mika, is that he didn’t suffer. A detective checks for a throat pulse near the hemorrhaging wound and nods. The division shifts into overdrive.

  Mika asks if I’m okay. Grasping her forearm with one hand, I force a smile and brace myself, while my other hand searches my body for any sign of physical trauma. I hope everyone is too distracted to see my hands shaking.

  “Fine, I think.”

  My hand stops searching, but Harmon starts pawing me for injuries.

  “You okay, Jake?”

  My hands are still shaking, but not as bad. Harmon notices. I check to see if Mika is okay.

  “Are you okay?”

  What it feels like to take a life cannot be defined, or described. Everyone reacts differently. There’s no way to prepare you how and what you should feel, or say. The reaction is very personal.

  Mika stares at Gates. She knows what he was and what he has perpetrated on society. Like all of us, she wanted him to pay for his sins, but none of us wants to be the hand of God, to affect the final judgment.

  As I take her service weapon, her hand is trembling, but she is amazingly strong- willed and takes command instantly. Individual officers respond and go about the job of securing the scene. The paramedics and techs arrive. Harmon commands the rest of the troops to stand down.

  “It’s all over, people.”

  I swear I hear Ed in Harmon’s voice.

  9

  It’s 6 p.m. and dusk is approaching from the east. This morning our friend was murdered. By late morning, we had captured his killer. Through the hours since we learned the details of his miserable life. By early evening, the perp was dead. It’s a time of conflicting emotions. Mika and I walk outside and look for a place to hide. A dimly lit booth will serve the purpose. A bar is always a great place to hide in. Everyone in there is hiding from something, so they understand.

  The place is small and nondescript, but nearby. Mika’s head turns constantly as if she is expecting someone to notice her as the person who killed the psychopath. The media vultures are still circling the precinct. They don’t have a clue who shot Gates. When they find out, the circus will begin.

  “Is the world a failure, or are some of us just failures?” Mika says.

  There’s no real answer. Her mind is just wading through the morass, part of the post-traumatic thing.

  “Does a guy like Gates plead insanity before God?”

  She needs to get it out with someone who cares. I understand what she is going through.

  “The shield says Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity––not assassin.”

  “Don’t even go there. Sometimes a situation requires violence. You saved my life.”

  She just became a member of the club. Few of us join by desire. The militia girl paid for my membership. Her facial expression changes from angry to uncertain. She alternately dominates the conversation then goes stone silent. Mika is analyzing, rationalizing. It comes with the territory. For her the color of truth has changed from black and white, to a medium shade of gray. The nightmares will come later.

  “Back in 1999, I arrested a skinny, drug-infested, white-trash biker girl who was responsible for numerous robberies, rapes, abductions and murders. She flirted with me as I drove her in. Said she wanted to have Hard-core sex with me in the backseat. Didn’t faze me at all, I just did my job. Two years ago, I took down a male suspect, a Latin Kings enforcer named Bobby ‘Bang- Bang’ Benitez. He had just ‘hotshot’ a drug dealing competitor with a syringe full of battery acid. The remains of the victim grossed out all of the guys, but I took it without a problem.”

  She takes a sip, pauses.

  “Last year, I bagged another female suspect with so many rough edges a sandblaster couldn’t smooth her out. She had bleached blond hair, crooked teeth and a miniskirt that covered her snatch by a hair. Singlehandedly, that goddess had bludgeoned and stabbed four people. I hauled her ass in and never once had the slightest urge to vomit.”

  Mika’s stories are nauseating me. I put my beer down on the table. I know what’s coming next.

  “But Gates, Michael goddamn Gates, bothers me.”

  After a few heartbeats pass I tell her.

  “I don’t think you heard most of what he said in there. It might make it a little easier.”

  “No I didn’t, I got there a few minutes before you came out.”

  As I speak, I see Gates sitting in that interrogation room with a demonic look in his dark eyes.

  “He professed bizarre, fanatic religious views, and anti-government rhetoric, his preference for castration. He said if he was horny, he’d get it on with the corpse, At times, he was perfectly calm then he’d flip into a rage. Not once did he show any indication of remorse. He made up some story about Lori and Abrams. God only knows how many corpses he actually left decomposing. He was up to twenty plus when you––”

  I catch myself and apologize. She moves right past my apology.

  “There was a guy in Russia, a guy named Rostov, who dismembered and disemboweled his victims. He ate their testicles after boiling them. As far as Gates’ bragging about the quantity of victims, he has a long way to go to pass up at least two others, one from Peru and one from Italy. And then there’s Dr. Harold Shipman from Britain.”

  The server drops off two more cold ones, but neither of us is interested in getting wasted. It’s my turn.

  “Strangely enough, Gates was a religious guy, full of God, penance, right and wrong––confessing. Obviously, he didn’t get it, the right and wrong part.”

  “Religion has always been a breeding ground for terror,” Mika says.

  After a half-smile and a nod, I continue about Gates’ sick mental state, how he believed in what he was doing, and how he enjoyed murder.

  “Of course, he enjoyed it.”

  Not surprised, she asks whether or not Gates mentioned anything about his sleeping habits, or pattern.

  “Nocturnal insomniac.”

  “Makes sense.”

  She looks casually around the room and notices that the televised National League baseball game is interrupted with a news report about the shooting. No one else in the bar pays attention. We can see the report, but miss most of what is being said. The report cuts to Harmon briefing the reporters, followed by a photo of Gates, followed by an old precinct photo of Mika.

  “Well, it didn’t take them long did it?” she says.

  “It never does. Get ready for the second-guessing. They come at you from all sides, dissecting your every move. The problem is they weren’t there. They just know the outcome, the end result.”

  “Anything about his childhood, siblings, parents?” she says.

  He gave me the standard abusive, unstable, dysfunctional family speech. Swore he didn’t do drugs. He also said, and I don’t if it’s relevant, that he abstained from killing when he and Abrams were together.”

  Mika’s internal hard drive downloads and processes the information.

  “And he returned to the scene, that’s the first time I’ve come across that in all of these cases. I should have put surveillance on the victim’s funerals. He might have attended one, or possibly all of them.”

  She looks past me. I want to give her as much background information as I can, but I can’t help tossing out my opinion.

  “He gave me a story about why he finally led us to his front door, but it didn’t make sense.”

  “Gates was a serial killer. He doesn’t have to make sense––premeditative and spontaneous, targets familiar victims and strangers, antiseptic, yet he leaves enough evidence to hang himself at the last one. I think he’s created a profile category all his own.”

  “He needed to die.
”

  “He wasn’t afraid of dying, he was more afraid of living. Maybe he finally realized that he was a monster. He didn’t say ‘thank you’ to be sarcastic, he said it because he meant it. Self-destruction for some reason was impossible for him. He needed someone else to finish it.”

  “Like I said, he needed to die.”

  Harmon tracked us down. His face is changed. He’s different now. Being thrust into the loneliness of command, and the circumstances surrounding, it’s taking an early toll on him. He isn’t smiling, but then again there really isn’t anything to smile about.

  “It wasn’t hard finding you two. You can bet the reporters will figure it out soon enough, so I wouldn’t hang around here too much longer, unless you want to be in the spotlight.”

  He talks just above a whisper and looks cautiously around the bar. Cop eyes scan.

  “Jake, maybe you should take Mika––”

  “Are you crazy? I’m a federal officer.”

  Mika tries to throttle down the remark, but she draws some unwanted attention from the other patrons anyway.

  “I can handle it,” she says.

  “Jake, explain it to her, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Harmon’s right, you’re going to need some room to recover, decompress maybe not right this minute, but it will start to dog you soon.”

  Mika takes a hard look at both of us.

  “I know you both mean well, but I can handle it. I need to finish this.”

  Her lips firm up and the look in her eyes clearly says the discussion is over. I’ve known Mika long enough to know she isn’t going to change her mind. It’s time to swing the conversation in another direction. Harmon looks like he needs a boost to take the edge off.

  “So Harmon, do I call you Chief Blackwell now?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘Chief’. Do you mean a respectful Chief Inspector Blackwell, or do you mean like an Indian wisecrack thing?”

  “I’m going with the wisecrack thing.”

  “Funny Roberts, there isn’t enough on my plate right now, so I need some of your adolescent behavior?”

  Ouch.

  The day has changed everything. The old Harmon is gone, replaced by one that’s all business. I’ll have to find a new way to cope because the jokes aren’t going to smooth out the rough spots anymore. No jokes and no more helpers. I need Lori time.

  “Any new information since we’ve been gone?”

  Harmon leans forward on his two large elbows.

  “Butzer and Rabinowitz found course materials from the university’s Criminal Justice Department that describe how various crimes are committed and crime scene investigation. There were also books on psychology and profiling.”

  He glances at Mika and then looks for a server.

  “They were in a closet in his room at his parents’ home along with a file full of obituaries. The guys are comparing names to the victims he claims.”

  He waves at the bartender to get his attention.

  “In the apartment he was living in, paid for I might add by Abrams, they found gray flesh trophies––skulls, hands, various anatomy parts––all packaged, catalogued and labeled by Gates.”

  “Bet mom and dad are proud.”

  Harmon and Mika deliver disapproving looks at me. Apparently, my level of compassion exists at a point somewhat lower than theirs. I just can’t understand how two parents can fail to notice that junior’s seriously different than the rest of the kids.

  “The parents, Detective Roberts, are understandably traumatized as any parent would be after finding out such horrific things about their son.”

  Harmon is stern. I shrug while running a mental list of the evidence. I tell Mika about the CD and ask her if it has any significance.

  “It must have had meaning to Gates,” Mika says.

  “Course we won’t find out why now.”

  His subtle reference brings an unfortunate spike of reality to Mika, but she immediately dismisses the remark.

  “Everything suggests he’s our man,” she says.

  “Why do you think he gave up?”

  Harmon tosses in his supposition.

  “In early Rome, the soldiers used to swear an oath by holding their testicles. They didn’t place their hands over their hearts, or on a bible. That’s where the word ‘testify’ comes from, the root word is ‘testes.’ Maybe Gates thought someone was sooner, or later, going to cut his off.”

  “Maybe he just wanted to be somebody,” Mika says.

  It’s painfully obvious we’re pretty much brain dead by now. The emotional reserves are depleted as well. All I can think about is getting some sleep. I look at Mika.

  “Want me to––”

  “No, I’m going back with Harmon. I need to look at some files before I go to sleep. I’m way too wired right now.”

  I give her my “are you sure?” look.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I want to look into them while it’s all still fresh in here.”

  She points to the side of her head and gives me one of her reassuring smiles.

  “Thanks Jake, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, then just call me Hibernate Jake. I’m going home and try to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  Harmon gives me a hard look. He places a hand on my shoulder for emphasis.

  “Jake, I’m serious about this. I don’t want you taking any more of those pills, do you hear me?”

  Harmon isn’t speaking as my friend and partner, now he is “the man” giving me a strict warning, but he’s right. I reach into my pocket, grab the small prescription bottle and hand it to him.

  “Now I’ll sleep better tonight,” he says.

  * * *

  The very moment dusk turns to night, the streetlights illuminate. The city transforms into silhouettes and heavy hues. The residents of my city bathe in the shadows and morph into people they weren’t only an hour before.

  The nature of the job requires constant evaluation and reevaluation. I’m stuck in this cerebral vortex about my ferocious craving for Lori, versus my career. Maybe I need to throw the big cosmic switch, and take a chance on a life outside of the badge. Maybe I’m just too tired and hallucinating. Everything revolves around my job. It has always been my reason for living.

  I wonder if it’s too late to call.

  In my righteous opinion, Lori has saved me. I was faltering, struggling and drowning in despair when she came along. She has the capacity to take away my pain with a simple word, or a single look. She understands, and knows exactly what I mean without a need for a long dissertation. When she’s with me, I don’t feel lost.

  I’m going to take a hot, steamy shower, wash the job off then give her a call. I want to hear her smoky, sensuous voice.

  Standing at my front door with my key in hand, I think about spending the rest of my life with her. I could be happy just watching a burning sunset with her. Peace, I need peace in my life, and I believe Lori’s my answer and my salvation, amen.

  * * *

  The kitchen had always been a place of refuge for her. She found it easier to push away the troublesome thoughts there. Food preparation, particularly the cutting motion of a knife against meat, or poultry, replaced other more grisly recollections.

  Lori was dining alone again. She missed having someone, a companion to be with. As she sliced through the tomatoes for her dinner salad, the dark memories pass through her mind. Her husband had been an angry, vicious man who was marinated in alcohol. The beatings she had endured, and the sexual abuses of Emily, were both mentally and physically devastating. There were times when she felt so loved that the horror disappeared in a mist.

  The knife she was using to cut the tomatoes was the very same one that ended his miserable life.

  She claimed that Mr. Powers had abandoned them, and even had the presence of mind to file a missing person’s report with the police. The search went on for years, but he never turned up. Friends and neighbors believed her when she said he ran off
. There was no extended family of his to contest the accusation. It was suggested that he couldn’t handle the responsibilities of married life and a child. Some thought he left with another woman. Whenever asked about it Lori cried real tears, and everyone sympathized with her. They never knew the tears were for what she couldn’t confess. As more time passed, they understood when Lori and Emily Powers became distant from them.

  Emily never knew what her mother had done. Instead, she struggled silently with her own demons. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about dad’s secret, the late night, and drunken sexual assaults on her young mind and body. She was certain mom knew. The hard part for Emily was trying to understand why her mother let it continue to happen. As an adolescent girl growing into womanhood, Emily found it impossible to have any normal loving relationships because of him. She oscillated between the extremes of the religious sisterhood, and being a whore. She chose the later and the reputation she carried on her shoulders during her high school years was unbearable.

  It all became too much for her and Emily decided to opt out. She left a letter describing how she felt about her mother’s reluctance to stop “daddy” before she overdosed on her sixteenth birthday. Emily’s death crushed Lori. To recover she developed a ruthless determination to avenge her daughter’s death. She decided to take the life of any man she encountered that played the same controlling, sexual games. Each execution was carried out with the same justification.

  She found the process easy after she had murdered her husband, but after multiple homicides, she knew she couldn’t get them all. It had to stop. Told that Abrams was the consummate professional and a trustworthy practitioner, Lori sought his advice and counsel. In her wildest dreams, she never thought he would disappoint her like he did.

  Lori arranged the carrots around the meat, and sprinkled salt and pepper over the entire tray. With one hand, she opened the oven door. With the other, she placed the tray inside. After closing the oven, she set the timer and smiled when the thought of Jake Roberts surfaced. He seemed different from all of the others. He was sincere, considerate and caring. She had no doubt that his affections were genuine. She didn’t believe such a man existed anymore, but there stood Jake. Lori was willing to try one more time to find love, to be loved. She had to know that someone could love her without inflicting pain and suffering.