by Aric Davis
“Hang on,” said Tracy. “Now kill the light.” Nelson fumbled with the flashlight’s off switch for a moment, and then they were plunged back into darkness. A bright blue light appeared in Tracy’s hand, and he shone it on the woman’s legs. There was a bright patch of purple where he’d sprayed her with the stuff in the bottle, and Tracy turned his head up to grin at them.
“What the hell is that?” Nelson asked.
“Luminol,” said Tracy. “That is, if you’re asking about the spray. The smear of purple is semen, most likely. Luminol makes it glow under a black light. You see—”
“Can it,” said Nelson. “You can tell us later. What does that semen mean for us?”
“It means we can compare blood types with the come I pulled out of that guy’s rubber. Different blood types, and we’ve got proof that someone else, most likely the man who killed her, tried to fuck her. If they pull even more out of her at the morgue, we’ll know exactly how much fun he had.”
Ken had taken just over $8,000 in cash from the safe in the floor of the supermarket. He hadn’t slept since the robbery, hadn’t really done anything, just counted money and eaten a TV dinner. He didn’t have to work until one p.m., and it was possible he might get sent home when he got there. He was scheduled just after the lunch rush, so Mr. Everett must have decided that they weren’t going to be all that busy. Ken didn’t know exactly how Mr. Everett figured that sort of thing out, but he did know that his boss was good at it. Ken also knew that he wanted to spend some money, and that he had time to do so.
Ken had decided to celebrate his windfall by purchasing a television and set of rabbit ears. He didn’t feel comfortable buying them too close to the apartment, but a quick glance at the phone book gave him a list of stores to choose from. Ken finally settled on a Witmark located just off Plainfield Avenue. He hadn’t been out there in a long time, and the trip would give him a good chance to kill some time and make some decisions. Taking the money had invigorated him in the same way that killing had, and it opened doors in the same way the magic bullet did.
Ken felt like a predator as he drove down the highway like some masked bandit. That was the whole reason to buy the TV: he’d been reading the newspaper’s recounting of his exploits, but the TV would have live updates on them. Not only would it be fun to watch, but he’d also get an idea of whether the police were starting to get close. Not that he thought they could be, not after the talk at the restaurant. He’d always worn gloves when he went hunting and, up until yesterday, had never taken a significant sum of money. The risks had all been in the killing; only the crimes of last night had required him to wait while someone stalled and prayed for hope. Not that it did that bitch any good. The second the safe was open, he’d shot her. By then she wasn’t worth keeping around.
Ken had been so sure of his ability to rape her that it hadn’t occurred to him that he was opening himself up to other risks, and now his balls still ached as a reminder. He didn’t fault her for attacking him, not anymore — he was the one who had put her in a life-or-death situation. Still, he had felt a lot different at the time. First stopping her in a rage at the door, then dragging her across the floor by a clump of her shirt and hair, and then finally firing her to the floor. His aching balls had been screaming the entire time, his flaccid dick reminding him of his own male uselessness. He had wanted her out of a lust that he couldn’t describe, and when she hurt him she saved him by taking that away. He needed to stay the course, take money and lives as situations dictated.
As he drove, he envisioned himself strolling into any of the many businesses lining the road, then doing what he did, going to work. Would attacking a business so far away from the others throw the police off of whatever small leads they might be wondering if they should trust? Certainly, the getaway from one of these stores would be harder — he didn’t know all of the back streets here, and he wouldn’t be just a few short miles from home. Still, part of his mind could smell gunpowder and fear, a part that wanted desperately to be released yet again. He might have even considered it, but he had learned restraint in the office.
The woman had taught Ken a valuable lesson: it was never going to be possible to get everything you wanted all at once. He had wanted the money from the grocery store, he had wanted her and the man dead, and he had wanted to fuck her. The last thing was the mistake. She had stopped at the door only because she could see in his eyes that he was going to shoot, and she could see her own death in the barrel of the gun.
Ken sat next to her as she wept and opened the safe. He could tell she was going slowly, making furtive and useless glances at the phone and at the door. The woman was all but mewling as she finally lifted the safe’s door open, and she offered herself to him, saying, “I was wrong to fight back earlier. If you want to fuck, if that’s what this is about, you can do it. You can do whatever you want. I just want to see my kids again, I want—” The gunshot in the small room was devastatingly loud, and it shut off her pathetic begging immediately. The woman had a pained look on her face as she slumped to the floor, and as much as Ken wanted to sit there and just watch her die, he’d spent far too much time in the grocery store already. He took the money from the safe, stuffed it in a paper bag that he grabbed on the way out, and then walked back to his car.
A little bit of restraint couldn’t be a bad thing, especially since after he got home from work he needed to call Paula and convince her to meet him somewhere with the kids so that he could see to them. It would be perfect, just so long as he made it perfect. The woman had convinced him that he could still have whatever it was that he wanted, but he needed to take it slowly.
Ken parked the car in the Witmark lot and got out. It was time to buy a moderately priced TV and a set of bunny ears, and do it in the least memorable way possible.
Nelson smoked and drove, Van Endel rode shotgun. Behind them was another unmarked car, but that one had two uniformed officers in the front seat and a cage in the back of it. They were all headed to Case, a furniture manufacturer that employed a huge number of the citizens of Grand Rapids. One of those workers happened to be Matt Emerson, the husband of the deceased woman found at the grocery store. The fact that he was both at work and not questioning where in the hell his wife was at was a matter of interest.
“There’s no way he sticks around if he’s guilty,” said Van Endel. “That’s not how the human mind works. They’re probably divorced, estranged, or swingers. We found her dead with another man she’d obviously been fucking; no one is cold-blooded enough to do that and then stick around. Don’t get me wrong, if he called in to work, then sound the alarms, but this seems different. Besides, there have been five other married people killed in these shootings, but we didn’t go after their spouses.”
“No, but we goddamn sure looked into them,” said Nelson. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s all we’re doing with this guy today, just seeing if he’s on the level. That said, I fully expect to take him into custody on suspicion of murder. You don’t get to just have your wife and her much younger boyfriend killed together while you sit at home with the kids. That’s too much of a happy little package for me.”
“Well, maybe you do have something there,” said Van Endel. “What if he did kill his wife, her lover, and everybody else? Say he knows about the affair but knows that if he just offs her, then he’ll get caught. Yet if she gets killed in the middle of a bunch of spree killings, he can just walk away once he gets enough separation.”
“Cool your jets,” said Nelson. “We still don’t even know for sure that this was the same guy. Ballistics came back that the bullets were from a .38 Special, but Tracy said it would be another hour or two before he knew for sure if it was the same gun or not.” Nelson patted Van Endel on the chest, right on his gun. “If you recall, .38 Special is a pretty popular round. We both happen to be carrying a gun chambered with one right now.” Nelson gasped, grabbed the CB off the dash, and weaved the car slightly. “Dispatch! Come in, quick! The killer’s in
the car with me! The killer is my partner! The chief was wrong to bump him up to detective!”
Van Endel took the CB mike from the grinning Nelson and stuck it back on its hook on the dash. He said, “You know, that might actually have been funny if you would have accidentally pushed the button.”
“How do you know I didn’t?” Nelson asked in an obviously fake-serious tone. “What if I’m just playing along?”
“I get it,” said Van Endel, holding his hands up. “You think my idea is ridiculous, that is clear. Thank you for helping me understand that you disagree.”
“You’re a good kid,” said Nelson. “Stop trying to overcomplicate things. We’re going to go in there and tell this guy his wife is dead, and then we’re either going to believe him or take him downtown. It’s simple.” Nelson pulled off Forty-Fourth Street onto Eastern Avenue and then took a quick right into the Case lot. He stopped the car at the security checkpoint and flopped his badge out the window. The guard in the booth looked at it, then back at Nelson. “Anything I need to be worried about?”
“Nah,” said Nelson. “That’s why we only brought two cars.” The man in the booth gave Nelson a wave and then got back to his newspaper. The gate in front of them rose, and Nelson pulled the car in and parked directly in front of the building, right under a giant NO PARKING sign. He opened the door and got out, then waved at the uniforms in the car behind them. Van Endel followed with a troubled look on his face. Even Nelson isn’t this brash.
“Relax, Dick,” said Nelson, as if he could read his tagalong’s thoughts. “We’re just going to find out where our guy works. This is a huge industrial park, and he could be anywhere.” Nelson flung open a glass door, and they walked into a decidedly un-factory-like room. A woman with her hair up was sitting behind an enormous brown desk, with another, older woman standing behind her. Both seemed entranced by something on the computer screen in front of them, and it wasn’t until Van Endel and Nelson were bellied up to the desk that the women acknowledged their presence.
“Can I help you?” asked the older of the two, and Nelson flipped open his wallet to show her some brass.
“You can,” said Nelson. “We need to talk to Matt Emerson.” The two women exchanged a glance. Neither of them looked too happy about the request.
“Is there a problem?” Nelson asked, and the younger woman said, “Sorry, that was rude of me. My name is Grace, and this is Lynn. We’re dealing with a ton of problems with our employee database right now. We can find out where Mr. Emerson is working, but it’s going to take a few minutes. There’s coffee and some chairs through the door if you gentlemen don’t mind waiting.”
“Thanks,” said Van Endel. “Just let us know where we need to go as soon as possible, please.” Nelson stuck his badge back in his pocket, and the two detectives walked through the door the woman had pointed to. Nelson went right for the coffee, calling over his shoulder to Van Endel, “How do you take it?”
“Black is fine,” said Van Endel, as he sat in one of the four plastic-and-aluminum chairs ringing a table in the center of the room. Nelson set a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him and sat down across from Van Endel. Nelson slid a small ashtray toward himself and then went through the twin rituals of lighting a cigarette and turning a cup of coffee into a glass of cream and sugar. He exhaled smoke, slurped coffee, and flicked ashes. Van Endel blew in his coffee and took a sip. It was flaming hot but otherwise delicious, nowhere near the break-room sludge that he’d been anticipating.
“So I guess we wait,” said Nelson. “It can’t take too long. At least the coffee’s good.” He blew smoke. “You really think this Emerson guy did it?”
“Not if he’s here, I don’t,” said Van Endel. “That would take a combination of brave and stupid that I’ve yet to experience. Still, somebody has to give him the bad news, and it may as well be us. If nothing else, he’ll just be another possible suspect eliminated.”
“Good point,” said Nelson. “We can scratch this guy off the list — only have, say, three hundred thousand more people to go. Great start. I can’t wait to tell the chief — maybe we can be at the press conference.”
“There’s a thought,” said Van Endel. “We can say that we cleared one guy, and then ask everyone else with an alibi to come forward to prove it. Once we’ve filtered through all of them, we’ll only have a few thousand left to pick from. Should be easy.”
“They should make you chief.”
“Damn straight,” said Van Endel, and the two men smooshed together their coffee cups. Grace slid into the room and said, “Matthew Emerson works on the floor of Building Number Four; he’s in assembly. His foreman is named Len Vaughn.”
“That was faster than expected,” said Nelson, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Not that I’m complaining, but you made it sound like we were going to be sitting here for a few hours, and it’s been five minutes since we said hello.”
“Mr. Emerson has had a pair of disciplinary actions filed recently,” said Grace. “He missed a couple of days, one last week, one this week. I had forgotten all about it, but Lynn handles that sort of thing. She’s just helping my poor old head with that darned computer — I think it hates me. Anyways, she remembered the name and got his physical file from her office.” Grace blushed. “Lynn would be telling you this herself, but she’s back to work at my desk. I just can’t get the hang of that thing.”
“That’s fine, Grace,” said Van Endel. “Thank you for your time.” Van Endel and Nelson stood, taking their coffee cups with them, and then followed Grace out of the room. “Just follow the signs to Building Four,” said Grace. “You can’t miss it.”
Van Endel opened the door and strode outside. Behind him he could hear Nelson say, “Thanks, ladies. Good luck with the computer.” Nelson was in the car just after Van Endel had slammed his own door shut. He said, “They’re going to fuck us with computers too someday, just wait. It’s a damn shame.” Nelson put the car in drive and pulled ahead toward a sign sticking out of the ground, with an arrow pointing forward, that said BUILDING 3 AND BUILDING 4. Nelson passed the sign, passed Building 3, and then parked in front of Building 4.
Van Endel and Nelson walked to the front door with the uniforms in tow. “You guys hang back,” said Nelson. “This is bad news first, arrest second. Keep your radios on. We’ll let you know if we need you.”
“Sure thing.”
Van Endel and Nelson walked inside. The noise of the factory was night and day from the quiet outside. A man driving a hi-lo stopped in front of them. “You guys get lost?” The detectives flipped badges, and Van Endel said, “We’re looking for Len Vaughn.”
“All right,” said the hi-lo driver. “Let me park this thing and I’ll get on the intercom.” The driver pulled forward ten feet or so, and then stopped to wave them ahead. “That’s him right down there, the guy in the vest.”
“Thanks,” said Nelson, and then the two of them headed down the aisle. Finished furniture and loose parts were everywhere. When they got to Len, he was watching two men load chair frames into a press that attached plastic seats. He was wearing a black Carhartt vest over a sleeveless shirt, and he had a beer gut and stovewood arms. The man looked as if he had lived his entire life in the heat and noise of a factory.
“Cops?” Len asked as he turned, and Nelson and Van Endel answered with badges. “All right, cops. What can I help you gentlemen with?”
“We need to talk to Matt Emerson,” said Nelson. “Do you have an office we can sit in, and you can bring him to us?”
“Sure,” said Len, “we’ve got a break room that’s empty right now.” He pointed across the floor to a steel door, no window. “It’s unlocked. You head on over, and I’ll get Matt. I take it this is not a social visit?”
“No.”
“Figured, what with the badges and those guns under your coats,” said Len. “I’ll see you in a minute or two.” Len wandered off, and Van Endel and Nelson walked to the office and let themselves in,
closing the door after them. It was dark, but Van Endel found a light by the door. There was a quarter-full pot of coffee and a pair of large and empty doughnut boxes atop a well-worn counter. Two circular tables sat in the room, each ringed with twelve chairs.
Nelson said, “Sit,” and pointed at a chair across from the door. Van Endel did, and then watched Nelson walk to the other side of the closed door to wait. It didn’t take long.
Matt Emerson was a short man, but he was built like a bulldog, covered in the sort of muscle that invariably seems to turn to fat given enough age. Len walked in after him, and when they were clear of the door, Nelson walked with them. “Have a seat, please, Mr. Emerson,” said Van Endel. “Len, if you could wait for us outside by the door, that would be great; we may have some questions for you.”
Matt Emerson sat across from Van Endel, and Nelson returned to the door and closed it after Len, then walked back to stand next to the seated Van Endel. Both men pulled badges and lay them on the table.
“What the hell is going on?” Matt asked, a mix of fear and anger clouding his voice. “I really need to be back on the line, all right, guys?”
“We understand,” said Nelson. “My name is Detective Phil Nelson, and this is my partner, Detective Dick Van Endel. I’m afraid that we have some bad news to share with—”
“Are my kids OK?” Matt asked. The fear and rage were gone, replaced now with good old-fashioned desperation. “Are Ryan and Erin all right? Did she take them?”
“Your children are fine, Mr. Emerson,” said Nelson. “Who do you think would take them?”
“My wife, Sharon,” said Matt. “She hasn’t been herself, and…” Matt tapered off. “He hurt her, didn’t he? I’m going to kill that fucking little cocksucker. I’m going to rip off his fucking head.” Matt slapped the table hard, making badges and doughnut crumbs bounce.