Angry Jonny

by Joaquin Emiliano

  “Well, that much has yet to be determined… But check this out.”

  Al turned on the television. Scrolled through a series of digitally recorded news programs, landing on one dated 5/7/2009. He hit play, rolled footage from the morning after Angry Jonny’s first hit. There were the sunlit streets outside Jason Castle’s home, teeming with press and pedestrian voyeurs as policemen worked the parameter. A couple of familiar faces milling about. Detectives Randal and Donahue examining the front door. And back at the furthest edges of the crowd, Malik and his mother kept watch, side by side with somber faces.

  Jessica leaned forward, focusing.

  “And there…” Al froze the image. Waddled up to the television and tapped the remote against the screen. Stuck in the lower right-hand corner was their man. Dressed in a light-blue uniform. Carefully maintained beard going gray against dark-brown skin. Paused in the act of ushering a group of photographers back from the curb. “That right there is Mr. Scott Stoppard.”

  Jessica sat back in her seat, shedding all signs of interest. “Mm.”

  “At the scene of the first crime,” Al reminded her, regret turning to regrettable excitement. “How’s that taste?”

  “Not my department anymore.”

  Al was crushed. Expecting Disneyworld and ending up in a parking lot. “Jessica.”

  “Al.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Holder.”

  “I know these past few weeks have been hard on you. But it looks like we’re coming in on the home stretch here.”

  “I’ve kind of gotten used to working alone.”

  “Yeah.” Al sighed. “I figured you were going rogue on us.”

  “My first priority is clearing my aunt’s name. You’ve got to understand that.”

  “What makes you think this isn’t the guy?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Jessica said, eyes flickering towards the screen. “But in the meantime… Please let me have this.”

  “Jessica…” Al rounded his desk and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I can’t in good conscience allow you to write an article about Daedalus. You’re just too close to it. I wouldn’t trust the best I had to remain unbiased.”

  Jessica nodded, throat tightening. “OK.”

  “I can offer you a full column and a half on the editorial page.”

  “Say that again?”

  “A full column and a half if you can deliver something outstanding. Anything less, and it’s the Internet for you. Write me an editorial that even comes close to mediocre, and you’re just going to have to chain yourself to a tree when the bulldozers come.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jessica said, rising from her seat. “Won’t disappoint. You can take that to the bank.”

  “If there are any left I trust. Time being, find Celia and see about where Stoppard was working his nights.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Before Jessica could make a graceful exit, Al took hold of her arm. “One last thing… How did you know about that ring game? Charlie Savage?”

  “Trust me…” Jessica threw one last look at the television screen. From the uniformed figure of Scott Stoppard, to the concerned faces of Malik and his mother. And then, a little to the left. Zeroing in on a pale, gangly young man. Half obscured by the crowd. Out for a pleasant walk with what appeared to be a small, eager beagle. Baseball cap and sunglasses covering features that appeared to belong to none other than Mr. Eli Messner. “There’s any number of things I wish I didn’t know right now.”

  She left Al to his prerecorded crime scene, closing the door tightly behind her.

  Chapter 49: Teenagers From Outer Space.

  How many serial killers can I name off the top of my head?

  Jessica scribbled the question atop a fresh page. She glanced at the TV to check the time. Remembered she had dumped the cable to cut down on expenses. The clock on the stereo flashed 10:35, her cramped wrist verifying that she had been at it for a good three hours. Shoulders hunched, empty glass by her side long overdue for a refill.

  As though worried her journal might catch her cheating, Jessica began scrawling names: David Berkowitz, AKA Son of Sam. Charles Albright, AKA the Texas Eyeball Killer. Dennis Rader, AKA the BTK Killer. John Wayne Gacy, Albert Desalvo, Ted Bundy…

  Jessica realized this was all pretend. For days now, her entries had radically departed from careful analysis to free association. Tonight, it was a feeble attempt at profiling. The arrest of Scott Stoppard had rattled her more than she had anticipated. Face to face with the difficulty of interchangeable suspects, the most minor characters capable of inflicting the greatest harm.

  Angry Jonny was not a typical serial killer. Wasn’t even a killer, save the death of Clarence Davenport. Angry Jonny was something far worse, somehow. Far worse, and far more familiar. Blurring the lines. Trashing schematics while tapping into something very real.

  But reality hadn’t given Jessica an inch, and she continued to write…

  Angry Jonny is mission oriented. Appears to be mission oriented. Fine, that is what most, both within and without the Cult of Angry Jonny, believe him to be. No doubt Angry Jonny is categorically an Organized/Nonsocial offender. He is methodical, aware of his crime scenes. Adaptable. Smart. The general mean IQ for such killers is 123…

  Jessica paused, stared into space. Momentarily mesmerized by the sequential order of those numbers.

  She shook it off, went back to her notebook.

  And the general rule is that Organized/Nonsocial offenders are reflections of the everyday. They do not wear their demons on their sleeve. There are no telltale signs. They do not appear to us in the form of loathsome perverts in stained trench coats or hungry trolls beneath the bridge. Some have wives. Children. Good jobs, solid references. Ted Bundy was a law student. John Wayne Gacy, a business graduate. A married man, started his own construction business at one point. They called him the Killer Clown because of his legendary block parties… These people are not the nice, quiet guy who lived next door. The one nobody really knew. They are social creatures. Friendly. Accessible. Charming, even. The nice, accommodating guy who lives in your aunt’s bedroom…

  There was a knock at the threshold.

  Jessica jumped, scarring the page with a bolt of blue ink.

  Eli smiled from where he stood, brown bag cradled in his arm. “So what are you writing about me in your Angry Jonny book?”

  “Tell me about the beagle and maybe there won’t be anything to write about.”

  “Mega Weapon.”

  Jessica scratched her nose. “Can’t say I was expecting those exact words.”

  “That’s the dog’s name. The beagle. Its name is Mega Weapon.”

  “Mega Weapon the beagle?”

  “My neighbors are hipsters.”

  “Neighbors?”

  “Jake and Sandy. They asked me to take care of him while they were on vacation.” Eli moved to the couch, placed the paper bag on the coffee table. “Making sure he was fed, taking him for walks. Matter of fact, they’re going camping in August, so Mega Weapon and me –”

  “Taking him for walks all the way out in Forrest Hills, some fifteen minutes across town?”

  “Jake and Sandy told me there was quite a park over there.”

  “And you never felt like mentioning that you were in Jason Castle’s neck of the woods, less than a week prior to first blood?”

  “No…” Eli cracked a pack of smokes and lit one. “Did Malik ever tell you that he lived across from Mr. Table Thirteen, or did you have to glean that particular fact the same way you caught him cheating?”

  “You think that proves anything?”

  “All it proves is that you are smarter than both of us. Malik is a scholastic dynamo. I talk a mean game, count cards and read people like large print. But neither one of us has your gift for putting the pieces together. Figuring it out… Truth be told, when it comes to sheer intelligence, you’re closer to a serial killer than anyone you’ve probably m
entioned in your notebook.”

  Jessica kicked the chair across from her, sent it tipping back. It clattered to the floor, two of its splints shattering. “Me. This whole time. That’s your play? That’s all you got?”

  Eli gave the chair an indifferent glance. Set his cigarette in the ashtray. He calmly leaned forward. “I think Scott Stoppard is Angry Jonny. I think you’ve been writing away in that notebook, desperately trying to track down Angry Jonny, put an end to all of this. You haven’t slept, you’ve been working nonstop to cover for Dinah. You’ve hardly eaten. You are slowly killing yourself, is what I think…”

  Jessica stared down at the notebook, scribbled words making up the bulk of Eli’s evidence.

  “I think you’ve invested every last fiber of yourself into this. And now that it’s finally winding down… Well, maybe you simply can’t accept that it was all just… Meaningless. As all things tend to be. The random acts of one random person. Topped by the only victim who ever meant anything to Scott Stoppard.”

  “What I can’t accept,” Jessica replied evenly, “are last-minute miracles.”

  “Then can you at least accept a truce?” Eli snubbed out his cigarette. “Scott Stoppard is in jail. Definitely for the assault on Terence Woods. Whether he’s going down for the rest of Angry Jonny’s dirty work, that’s going to have to wait. But just for tonight, if only for the sake of your own sanity… can you let it lie? Can we please, please be friends again?”

  Jessica’s lips twitched from side to side. “A truce, huh?”

  “Just for tonight.”

  “What do I get out of this?”

  Eli hoisted the brown bag onto his lap. “Seeing as how I thought you’d be wanting to celebrate Mr. Stoppard’s arrest… I brought a bottle of kiddy champagne for you, and a fifth of Black Label for me.”

  “Nobody can accuse you of trying to get me drunk.”

  “Also got us raspberries and ice cream.”

  “Now you’re starting to get a little creepy.”

  “Plus…” He reached into the bag and presented a shrink wrapped DVD case. “A classic episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000.”

  “Dinah’s collection is fairly impressive as it is.”

  “But does she have Teenagers From Outer Space?”

  “She’s spent the last three years raising one.”

  “Truce…” Eli systematically removed the rest of the items. “Just one night. How about it?”

  “I want so badly to make an evening of fake champagne, ice cream and raspberries.”

  “Do you want to sign something, somewhere?”

  “Al holder’s going to let me write an editorial. About Daedalus, the sale, everything.”

  “Why don’t you go grab us a pair of spoons and a couple of glasses,” Eli suggested. “You can sit down and tell me all about it.”

  Jessica got to her feet, legs like a newborn fawn. With tentative steps she made it halfway across the room before turning back and taking her notebook with her. She caught Eli sending a sly smile her way. She smiled back, tired but willing to play both sides of the board.

  Even a truce came with certain rules.

  ***

  The two of them melted into the couch, bathed in the flicker of preposterous, 1950’s science fiction. Jessica sipped cherry-flavored, fake champagne. Eli happily devoured his pint of Johnnie Walker Black. The television weaved an almost touching tale of a space-teen named Derek and his quest to save humanity from his own conquering kindred. The pack of raspberries vanished in the first fifteen minutes. Jessica and Eli stole tired, automatic kisses between bouts of laughter as giant, lobster-shaped Gargons grew to enormous heights and stormed the sleepy, California town of who-gives-a-damn.

  Kisses mixed with the taste of raspberry, cigarettes and twelve-year-old scotch.

  Jessica didn’t know whether it meant anything. Didn’t know whether the world would look the same when she awoke to the violating sounds of power tools. Didn’t know if this was all a celebration, or finally an authentic truce. A ceasefire before heavy artillery was rolled in to do some real damage.

  As Jessica slowly fell asleep, cradled in Eli’s arms, there was only one thing she was certain of.

  And that was that Jessica didn’t know much of anything anymore.

  Chapter 50: Sprung.

  It could have been that Jessica was finally getting used to the intrusive sound of construction. After so many mornings ruined by mechanical beasts, the crack of ballpeen hammers against brick walls, maybe it was about time for her shattered nerves to make peace.

  That morning, it was the strike of a single match that did the trick.

  She arose from her groggy belly flop; struggling under the weight of Eli’s arm, slung over her back. Propped herself up. Blurred vision taking in the bottle of Black Label, pint of untouched vanilla now a carton of creamy soup.

  The smell of a burning Camel drifted just beneath her nostrils.

  Eli remained snoring, face buried against the cushions.

  Someone in that room was smoking a cigarette, and the math wasn’t adding up.

  Eyesight stumbling, Jessica made out a silhouetted figure sitting at the table. Legs crossed. Celestial eyes staring beneath a tangle of blond curls.

  Jessica’s voice croaked on the first go-around, Dinah’s name stuck like paste to her vocal chords.

  With her second try, Jessica’s eyes finally adjusted. “Blondie?”

  Dinah took a deep drag, exhaled: “Tell me this isn’t totally the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Jessica threw herself off the couch. Across the room in two ungainly leaps, sliding to her knees, arms wrapped around Dinah’s midsection. Brown buttons scrapped against her teeth, mouth that wouldn’t stop grinning. She rocked back and forth, unable to stop.

  “Easy, there…” Dinah advised, gently extracting herself from her niece’s death grip. “Got some bruised ribs going on down there.”

  “Shit, sorry...” Jessica sat back on her haunches, sunlight streaming in from behind Dinah’s body. “Didn’t rough you up too badly in there, did they?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Huh?”

  Dinah pointed across the room, where Eli continued to saw logs.

  Jessica grimaced as she went for a little walk in Dinah’s shoes. It wasn’t as though Eli and she had been caught in the throes of violent ecstasy. But to find them curled up on the couch, surrounded with all the implements of a romantic evening at home…

  “I know this ain’t exactly a hero’s welcome.”

  Dinah gave her shoulder a pat, and headed for the door.

  They stepped out onto a boilerplate morning. Jessica was greeted by a flurry of bright pastel colors scrawled along the redbrick pathway. Frustrated proclamations from Camelot tenants tattooed in chalk:

  Daedalus, go away!

  Our Home, Not Yours!

  Keep Pantheon OUT!

  Not without a fight!

  “Looks like things ain’t going too well with the new management,” Dinah commented.

  “You got that right.”

  “Be cool, baby. Be cool, this can’t have been easy on you.”

  “I wasn’t the one stuck in jail, getting their ribs cracked.”

  “Just bruised…” Dinah smiled through a fresh cigarette. “You should see the other chick.”

  “About Eli –”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Do I have anything to be mad about?”

  “No…” Jessica began to talk fast, looking to rip the bandages. “We made out a couple of nights ago. Less than two minutes, if that. I was tired, the two of us had almost been shot –”

  “Shot?”

  “Yeah, there’s also a dead guy involved.”

  “Doesn’t matter…” Dinah motioned for Jessica to stroll with her, footsteps taking them over the bitter glare of graffiti. “But you have to promise me it’s over now.”

  �
��Over and done. He’s all yours.”

  “It’s not about that, Jessica.”

  “Then I’m confused.”

  “I just don’t know how much I trust him.”

  Jessica frowned. “That’s a bit of a switch.”

  “I found myself with unscheduled free time on my hands. Got to thinking.”

  “You and me both…”

  The ice cream truck crept by like lion on the Serengeti. From across the street, apartments buildings opened their doors to a flock of round little robins clutching dollar bills. Jessica summarized what her investigation had uncovered. From Carlton Walsh, to the possible theft of dangerous chemicals from the Center for Human Genetics, to the footage of Eli and his canine companion, Mega Weapon.

  All of it ending with a necessary addendum. “But seeing as they released you, maybe none of this even matters anymore. You must have heard they got someone new in custody. Man by the name of –”

  “Scott Stoppard, yeah. Heard a lot more than that on the inside.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as he wants to confess. To everything…” Dinah watched as the ice cream truck rolled away, in search of greener pastures. “Every last one of Angry Jonny’s victims. My guess is they didn’t want to go through another public court appearance with Mr. Stoppard in jail. Maybe the DA’s found himself a better fall guy.”

  “Fall guy?” Jessica was tired of postponing the celebration. “Blondie, if you’re free, then the prosecution’s got to be looking at a slam dunk.”

  “Could be…” Dinah dropped her cigarette on the ground, crushing it underfoot. “Time being, let’s just both keep an eye on Eli.”

  “You don’t think this is over?”

  Dinah gazed fixedly at the ground.

  Jessica did the same. Bright-yellow words staring back up at her.

  ANGRY JONNY.

  “Yeah,” Dinah said, wiping her face. “Something tells me we’re going to have to wait and see.”

  The pair of them walked back towards their building. Dinah quietly slipped an arm around her niece. Jessica laid her head to rest on her aunt’s shoulder. An uncertain future happily offset by a reunion that carried with it some hope of for this tiny, patchwork family.

  Or at the very least, a chance at finally sleeping through the night.