by David Beers
Ha! He could have the untouchables and the Brahmans or whatever those towel heads called their betters over there.
The woman stood up from the picnic table and walked back to her car. The other guy didn't move, though, just sat there staring at the trees across the lawn. Bradley pulled his binoculars up and focused in on the man's face. A pale guy. Skinny. Nerdy, clearly. What were they doing here together?
Doesn't matter.
The woman's car pulled away, and Bradley decided to let it go. He would visit her later. He had carefully chosen his first two victims, and the third had been a gift. This one could be for him, just something fun where he went inside and did what he wanted. If he decided to take her eyes, all the merrier—if not, no loss. Blue or brown, he didn't see any reason not to kill her.
Bradley had to work the evening shift tonight, so he headed back home to get ready.
He didn't look in on his mother; he'd forgotten completely about the movie they were to watch. Too much was going on around him to remember what she wanted. After all, she hadn't cared about what he wanted, not until he made her care. Not until he showed her that his father wasn't the one in charge. Only then did she start thinking about what Bradley might want.
He turned on the television and pulled his uniform from the closet.
Bradley was just about to pull his pants over his boxers when he stopped. The television, or rather, the voice coming from it, made him.
He let go of his pants and they fell back to the floor.
"This is the fourth killing attributed to The Surgeon. This time the target was retired FBI agent John Presley, and his wife, Patricia Presley. While details aren't being released ..."
Bradley quit focusing on what the bitch said. Had he killed someone else? Was he not remembering what he did?
He stepped from his pants and ran from his room, down the hallway, and to the garage. Unlocking it, he stepped inside the freezing room and trotted across to the opposite wall where his collection waited.
Four eyes, right in front of him. He looked to the corner and saw the single eye he'd placed over there.
"Five. That's it. Five total."
He shook his head, not feeling the cold air all around him.
"Would I have?" he wondered aloud. He ran back through the garage and out into the hallway, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Bradley didn't knock on his mother's door, but barged in, flipping the overhead light switch on for the first time in months.
"Hey!" she shouted. She turned to him, not trying to shield herself from the newly born brightness. Bradley didn't bother looking at her, but only scanned the room, trying to see if he'd left an eyeball in here—if he'd blacked out and completely forgot.
He saw nothing.
He stood there staring for a few seconds, his mouth closed, and then he slowly backed out. He closed the door, his mother hollering something from inside, but he didn't care.
This was important. More important than work. More important than anything else at the moment.
He went back to his room, the news program still running, and he listened.
A copycat.
Someone trying to do his work, taking credit, and yet not helping fill Bradley's collection.
And this copycat killed a former cop. No, a former FBI-FUCKING-AGENT.
"I have to get to work," he said, his voice monotone. He stepped forward and turned the television off, then went back to the business of getting dressed. On his way out of the house, he locked up the garage.
Bradley needed to figure out what the hell he was to do next. Bradley needed to talk with Charlie, if for nothing else than to get these thoughts out in the open.
Charles closed his eyes as Bradley walked through his bedroom door.
It was dinner time, but Charles hadn't had an appetite in weeks. He ate, but only because if he didn't, the staff would grow alarmed. He didn't want any extra attention on himself right now, because he had made a decision and now he needed to act on it.
He made it while watching the news a day or so ago. Bradley had dropped him off into the common area without saying a word, and there on the television was the news of an FBI agent and his wife having been murdered. The man's wife missing her eyes.
Bradley's M.O.
Yet, the punk kid hadn't mentioned it. Hadn't gloated. Hadn't offered to bring one of the broad's eyes for Charles to look over.
"That's just horrible," Betty had said next to Charles, the old bag picking the chair beside him despite their being countless others available.
Yes, it was horrible. Charles agreed with the old bag on that point, but he thought it also meant something pretty horrible for Charles—it meant the sick bastard was going to kill him. Why else wouldn't he have mentioned it?
Charles had to do something, and he could only think of two options: tell someone, or kill Bradley.
"Charlie, how are you doing?"
Bradley didn't sound well. He sounded about as poorly as he had when he threatened Charlie a week or so ago.
"Have you been watching the news?"
Charles nodded even though he didn't want to. He felt like he didn't have any choice when it came to answering this madman. His body simply took over and did what the bastard asked.
"That wasn't me, Charlie. I didn't kill that FBI agent." Bradley wasn't looking at Charles, but staring above him at the headboard again. "I didn't take those eyes out. I'm pretty sure of that. Have you told anyone?"
Charles shook his head no in one hard gesture. Fuck no, I didn't tell anyone, you crazy dingbat.
Bradley must have seen him shaking his head, though his eyes never moved. "I didn't think so. I just had to check. I'm sure you understand. Someone else is doing this but I don't know why." Bradley walked forward and sat down on the bed next to Charles's legs. "I don't know what to do. I'm trying to think this through, but I can't figure out what would be the best move. I mean, if someone else is killing people, that could be a good thing, right?" He gave Charles no time to answer, though the old man shook his head anyway. "It would lead the FBI to someone else, but ... I'm doing this. I'm The Surgeon. Not that other guy, and that ... it bothers me, Charlie."
Charles nodded again.
"I can't bring the eyes here, Charlie. I'm sorry, but it's too risky, especially with the FBI guy dead now. I could, though, if you wanted, bring you to them?"
Bradley looked over for the first time.
Oh, Jesus Christ. Charles nodded slowly, his body taking over again.
"Okay. We'll do that soon. Look, it's time for dinner. I'll grab your chair."
Charles watched the half-catatonic Bradley get his wheelchair and bring it to the bed. Watched as Bradley helped scoop him into the thing, and then as he rolled down the hall, heading to a meal he didn't want to eat.
He felt like crying, that he might not be able to stop himself. Charles was going to die and he couldn't tell anyone. This psychopath was going to check him out of this nursing home, bring him to his house to show a ghastly collection, and then—without a doubt—kill Charles. No one was going into Bradley's house and coming out alive.
"There ya go," Bradley said as he pushed Charles's chair to one of the dinner tables. "I'll come get you when you’re done. Have to go do some work now."
Bradley walked away and Charles looked around the table, his eyes wet, wishing he could communicate with one of these old fogies. Just one. Tell them what was going on and maybe together they could plan out an escape. No, though, that wasn't possible. Couldn't happen. These idiots would blab as if their mouths had diarrhea, unable to even help it.
Who else, then? If not your kids, if not the staff, and definitely not the people around you ... who can you tell?
And then, as if God loaded up an arrow and shot it directly into his brain, the answer was there.
Tell the FBI, you idiot. Write them and make sure the psychopath doesn't know.
Chapter 21
Bradley had no idea what Charlie was doing, and tha
t was a good thing, because Bradley had far too much on his mind to worry about anything else. The more he contemplated someone else stealing his glory, his work, the angrier he grew. So angry, in fact, that he couldn't make his way over to that woman's house. Not tonight. He'd make a mistake if he tried to do anything now.
He sat in his mother's room, the lights off and she asleep. Her eyes were closed, and as he sat there staring, he thought it funny that she still shut her eyelids. She had, of course, been his second human subject. Removing her eyes about a month after he removed his father's.
His father hadn't made it through the operation. His mother did, and Bradley was happy about it. He hadn't been saddened by his father's death. The man was a brute that loved no one, but Bradley thought his mother's death might sadden him. He sat here now trying to stave off a headache that seemed intent on possessing him. With her so quiet and still, he found he could think a little better while looking at her. Looking at the work he'd done all those years ago.
His mother couldn't see, and Bradley had made that possible. It was something to be proud of, to take someone's eyes and have them still live. That took skill, a remarkable attention to detail. It also showed that he was different from his father; his dad would have cut Bradley from groin to sternum if he thought a hundred dollars might be lodged inside his son somewhere.
I'm kind, he thought, unlike him. I let her live, and all I took was her eyes, which is much less than what she owes me. She owes me her life, but my kindness spared her.
And then, much like the answer that came to Charlie earlier, a single and all encompassing idea appeared in his head.
I have to separate myself from the other person. I have to show that my skill is better than his. I have to leave the women alive. That'll show I'm kind ... and if this other fucker tries to copy me again, he won't be able to.
Bradley smiled in the darkness of his mother's room; the moonlight shining through the window lit up his teeth. In the dim light, his own eyes appeared as dark holes.
Charles spent the night with his tablet on his lap. He was pretty adept at moving around the interface—graphical interface, he had learned. It took him about an hour to figure out all of the main people working on 'The Surgeon's' case, and then, despite his best intentions, he found himself going down a rabbit hole.
Luke Titan was the reason for it.
Charles was amazed at what the man had accomplished in his four decades on Earth. Charles had worked hard and was fairly wealthy before his kids decided to ship him off to this luxurious nursing home, but what he'd accomplished couldn't even be mentioned in the same breath with this Titan fellow.
Finally, though, Charles returned to the business at hand. He'd found his man, Luke Titan, and he felt certain if he wrote to him, all of this would be resolved quickly.
Charles pulled out a notebook and pen from his nightstand. He was sitting up in bed and propped a pillow on his legs, allowing him to bear down a bit more. Then, with the lamp on, Charles started writing his letter to Luke Titan.
Christian couldn't shake the thoughts of Luke, though he needed to. If it hadn't been for that single moment in Presley's house, he wouldn't have been considering any of this. In fact, the whole thing was preposterous—bordering on insanity. If Veronica Lopez called back, he would tell her he wasn't interested in anything she had to say. He trusted his mind too much, but just because he was smart, didn't mean he was always right. What happened in the house had been a misfire, a flare that shouldn't have gone up.
This thought process, of Luke being a murderer, was pulling him away from what he needed to do: find the actual killer.
Christian couldn't sleep and was tired of staring at his computer. Tommy said earlier that the trail might grow cold if the killer didn't strike again soon. Nothing was panning out from the interviews around Presley, and the others were days old without any valuable leads. The first 48 hours in the investigation were the most critical, and those were long gone. Whoever was doing this could simply walk away right now, and would most likely never be found.
Tommy had dug deep into the farms and abused children theory. Nothing showed up. Not on farms which had foreclosed, nor those sold.
"Sorry," he had said.
Christian nodded and stayed quiet.
"That's how this goes sometime. Some murders remain unresolved, the suspect a mystery."
"What do we do?" Christian had asked.
"We wait to see if he strikes again. We keep following tips and leads. Other than that, there isn't much we can do right now. He hasn't left us anything to work with, at least not yet."
"He'll kill again," Christian said.
"Most likely. So we wait."
Christian was sort of angry with himself for allowing Veronica Lopez to take his attention away from the task assigned to him. Angry at himself for not seeing the stupidity of her crazy witch hunt. If it hadn't been for the timing, he would never have entertained it.
Finally, still unable to sleep, Christian pulled himself from his bed, dressed, and got in his car. He drove across town to the restaurant Crystal Hembree had worked at. The Surgeon's first victim. He sat in the parking lot for a minute and looked through the building's windows. There were a few customers, but business probably wasn't brisk this late on a Wednesday night.
Christian got out of his car and walked across the parking lot.
He stopped at the front door, holding the handle. He didn't pull it.
"Did you come here?" he whispered.
Christian hadn't visited this place before. Tommy patrolled it on his own, right after the murder occurred. Christian had spent his time at the crime scene, while Tommy interviewed those that worked with Hembree.
He took a step back and found a bench next to the restaurant. He sat on it and the world disappeared, leaving him inside his mansion. Christian went to the only room he hung out in anymore and quickly pulled up Tommy's notes.
Crystal Hembree had worked here for two years. She worked the bar, primarily, but sometimes filled in for other shifts as needed.
Tommy had scribbled down: Regular customers?
Beneath it were a few names. A woman, which Christian quickly discarded. Two men, a Ryan and a Liam. Ryan Hollicomb.
Using the digital walls, Christian's hands found the notes regarding Hollicomb. Tommy had checked him out, crossing him off the list of possible suspects. He had an alibi every night of the week Crystal Hembree went missing. He was a trucker and had been out of state.
Christian went back to the original note.
Liam. No last name. Manager not one hundred percent that was customer's name. Customer was new, not regular.
Asked manager to look through receipts. Will respond if any match last name w/first.
Even as Christian sat inside his mansion, on the bench outside the restaurant, his hands were pulling his cellphone out of his pocket and placing it to his ear. When Tommy answered, he exited the mansion and came back to reality.
"Hey," Tommy said.
"Did the Crystal Hembree's manager ever get back to you?"
A pause, Tommy probably trying to remember exactly what information he was supposed to get from the manager. He'd interviewed hundreds of people, by himself, and keeping them all separated couldn't be easy.
"Yeah, yeah. He did. He told me they had no receipts on him so he most likely paid with cash every time. What are you doing right now?"
"I'm outside Hembree's work. How can we find out more about that guy? Liam?"
"I ... umm ... I don't know. Look, I have someone over right now. Give me a few minutes and I'll call you right back, okay?"
"Okay."
Christian hung the phone up and was right back in his mansion. He stared at the name again, written on a perfect replication of the paper Tommy had used. Liam.
Christian nodded inside the room, and on the bench, he nodded as well. He came back to reality again, stood, and went inside the restaurant.
"Hi, sir, how are you?" the hostess s
aid as he approached her stand.
"Good," Christian said without looking at her. His eyes were casting around the restaurant, trying to find the bar ... where Liam might have sat. “There,” he said. “I'll sit there."
The hostess looked where his finger pointed, her eyebrows raising. "The bar is open seating, sir."
Christian said nothing, but walked briskly by her.
"You came here, and you would have sat as close to her as you could. At least by the end. She knew you, didn't she?" he spoke to himself, though his voice was loud enough to carry around the bar. The few customers in the restaurant sat in booths, but Christian wouldn't have cared if he stood right next to them.
He took a seat at the end of the bar, and the bartender walked over to him. "Hi, how are you?"
"I'm fine. I don't need anything to drink." An intensity was growing inside Christian and he wished everyone would ... "Please, just leave me alone and let me sit here."
"Excuse me?"
"Leave me alone." Christian stared at the bartender, a man in his mid-thirties. The guy looked back at him, obviously pissed off. Again, though, Christian didn't care.
"Let me know if you want something," the bartender said, breaking the confrontation and walking back to the kitchen.
Christian looked up and down the bar. Lights reflected through the liquor bottles sitting on the shelves, illuminating them with different colors—pink, blue, and green. A pink light ran at the bar's edge too.
"You sat here," Christian said. "You sat here and talked to her night after night."
Christian leaned back on the stool and closed his eyes.
There still aren't any faces; Christian may be getting closer, but he was a far cry from truly knowing the person he was after. He can see more, though, and it's because he sits where the killer once did—giving Christian the insight, even if he's not fully aware of the reason at the moment.