In Case of Carnage

by Gerry Griffiths

  While Marcus scoured the garbage bins, he often came across carelessly discarded personal information—tax forms with social security numbers, bank statements with account numbers. It was shocking how people could be so incautious, jeopardizing their livelihoods, thinking no one would consider digging through their garbage to steal their identities. He often came across plastic bags full of shredded paper. He knew if someone were determined to spend the time, they could piece all that confetti back together again.

  Marcus had few friends. Most days, Carl lay under his inverted “V” of cardboard, reading the previous day’s newspaper. Carl had been a prominent college professor—or so he claimed.

  Occasionally, Marcus bumped into Fast Eddie, so called because he spoke a million words a minute and never knew when to shut up. Marcus suspected Fast Eddie was a deranged, incurable heroin addict who was hooked on methadone.

  There were others he recognized by face alone. Most homeless people kept their identities to themselves, as they didn’t trust anyone, especially another tramp who might rob them of what little they had.

  Every day, he thought of his wife, Kelly, and their daughter, Amy. He missed them. He wished they could be together.

  At night, Marcus remained vigilant. Packs of mean-spirited teenagers roamed everywhere, getting their thrills by preying on the destitute.

  Marcus had been beaten up once while he’d slept. A bottle had been smashed over his head. The heel of a heavy motorcycle boot had broken three of the fingers on his right hand. A length of pipe had fractured his nose and cracked two ribs.

  The next morning, he’d walked into a free clinic and collapsed on the floor.

  * * *

  Late afternoon, Marcus returned to the suburban neighborhood by the park.

  He was strolling along the sidewalk with his shopping cart when a garage door automatically rolled up. A shiny black BMW sedan backed out of the garage.

  The jogger from that morning was behind the wheel. The driver checked the street both ways, then paused for a moment to stare at Marcus. He shook his head with disdain, whipping out of the driveway as the garage door closed. He sped off down the road.

  An hour later, Marcus was sitting on a park bench with his right shoe and sock off, massaging his filthy foot, when the same BMW returned and drove into the garage.

  Just before dusk, the jogger exited his house on his normal jaunt. He sprinted across the street into the park.

  It was almost nightfall, so there was no one in the park except for Marcus.

  Marcus waited on the crest of the hill.

  The jogger ran up the slope. “Hey! Get out of my way!” he snapped, darting around Marcus.

  Marcus turned and held out his hand.

  “Get a job, you miserable bum!” the jogger shouted, glaring over his shoulder.

  The man collided with the shopping cart, sending it rolling. He clung to the front as it raced down the grassy hill toward the construction site. It sailed over the top of a cement retainer wall and plummeted twenty feet down on a concrete slab.

  Three rebars speared through the jogger’s chest as he landed on his back. The shopping cart crashed beside him.

  Marcus climbed down and knelt beside the quivering man.

  “Please . . . help me,” choked out the jogger, wheezing his last breath. Blood oozed under his body.

  Marcus foraged through the dead man’s pockets. He found only a house key.

  He righted the mangled shopping cart and gathered his strewn belongings. After reloading his cart, he parked it behind a bush.

  Marcus left the body where the jogger had landed. A stack of cinder blocks hid it from anyone’s view.

  He trudged up the hill and glanced both ways before crossing the street, relieved there was no one around to see him. He scurried up the walkway to the jogger’s front door, then let himself in with the dead man’s house key.

  Standing in the small foyer, Marcus took a moment. It was the first time in a very long while since he’d been inside a house. He glanced around the entry, admiring the marble floor, the crown molding, the recessed ceiling lighting, the warmth of the creamy beige walls.

  On each side of the archway leading to the living room stood a tall fern in a ceramic pot.

  Marcus stepped into the spacious room with its high-vaulted ceiling, reminding him of the inside of a cathedral. The owner was partial to black leather, as the couches, ottomans, and chairs were all fabricated from the same material. Oil paintings adorned the walls, mostly of frigates jostled by the high seas. Blue flames danced on the artificial logs in the gas fireplace.

  A big-screen TV occupied much of one wall, which was bordered with bookcases stretching from the floor up to the ceiling.

  Marcus entered the kitchen.

  A woman stood at the counter with her back turned. She was barefoot, wearing an oversized T-shirt, the bottom skirting her tanned thighs. She’d obviously heard Marcus enter the house. “You’re back early.”

  The woman turned. She looked at Marcus. She wasn’t the least bit afraid. “Get your filthy ass out of my house! Get the hell out!” She grabbed a carving knife out of the block. In doing so, she accidentally swiped a wooden salad bowl off the counter. Lettuce, sliced tomatoes, and cucumbers spilled onto the floor.

  Marcus put up his hands. “Put down the knife.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she sneered. “Get out!”

  “Not until—”

  The woman lunged. She swiped the blade across the front of his overcoat, narrowly missing Marcus as he stepped back. Still on the offensive, the woman thrust the stainless-steel point at Marcus’s chest.

  Marcus sidestepped her advance. He thrust his palm out at her shoulder, jolting her backwards. She slipped on the slick vegetables. Her right foot went out from under her. She struck the base of her skull on the edge of the granite countertop and slumped to the floor.

  Marcus stood over her lifeless body. He watched a small crimson pool bloom around her head.

  He continued his tour through the exorbitant house, climbing the stairs to the landing. He strolled down the hall, passing three doorways to separate bedrooms. He reached a double-door entry to an ornate, palace-sized master bedroom.

  Marcus waltzed into the room. He strolled past the walk-in closet and directly into the bathroom. An enormous four-by-eight-foot mirror above a two-sink granite countertop covered one wall. A bay window accompanied the Jacuzzi, while the toilet graced its own space as if it were in a showroom. The shower stall could fit a horse.

  Marcus stripped off his grungy clothes and tossed them into the bathtub.

  He searched a vanity drawer for nail clippers and trimmed his finger and toenails. For twenty minutes, he leaned in front of the mirror, cutting his hair, then shaved off his beard.

  In the shower, he turned the faucets full blast. He washed his hair, scrubbed the smirch from his body.

  After toweling himself dry, he entered the bedroom to search the dresser drawers. Naked, he paraded into the walk-in closet, admired the fine garments and shoes.

  He found underwear and socks still in the packages. He picked out a pair of pleated slacks, a salmon polo shirt, and new loafers from a shoebox to wear.

  On the bed, he meticulously arranged a week’s worth of clothes he fancied. He packed them in a suitcase.

  Marcus carried the suitcase downstairs, along with his old clothes, which were stuffed in a garbage bag. He placed them by the front door.

  In the kitchen, he grabbed an apple out of the refrigerator. He looked at the dead woman lying in the bloody mess and took a bite from the apple.

  Marcus munched on his apple as he discovered a home office. It looked more like a command center. Four computers occupied a long table with chairs, a large mahogany desk, a row of filing cabinets, and stacks of boxes.

  He pulled open the top drawer in the desk. It was filled with credit cards, each with a different person’s name on it.

  Marcus sat down in a chair. He spent a few minutes delv
ing through the plastic, then kept only two. He put the credit cards in an attaché case that was already on the table.

  He opened the next drawer. He found checkbooks inside with the registers in individual leather cases. He kept two.

  The third drawer was full of debit cards with their corresponding personal identification numbers. He stuffed one card into the briefcase, along with a battery-operated calculator.

  In the bottom drawer, he found a shoebox. When he removed the lid, his face beamed; it was filled with fat stacks of hundred-dollar bills held together with rubber bands. He emptied the box into the attaché case.

  Marcus went over to the file cabinets. He rifled through folders containing security bonds and stock certificates. He shut the drawer without taking any.

  He checked a few more drawers, finding more valuables. He closed the full attaché case. He deposited it by the front door next to the suitcase and the garbage bag.

  For dinner (while doing his best not to trip over the dead woman or step in her blood), Marcus broiled a thick rib eye steak. He fixed himself a couple of scotches from the wet bar, toasted the corpse on the floor, and with his supper, polished off what tasted like an expensive bottle of his host’s merlot.

  Instead of sleeping in the master bedroom, Marcus slept in one of the spare bedrooms. He set the alarm before drifting off. For the first time in the longest while, he was actually sleeping in a real bed with a full stomach and without the fear of freezing to death or being murdered in his sleep by some lunatic.

  Come morning, Marcus was startled by the alarm clock, unaccustomed to the jarring sound. Golden sunlight filtered into the room. He rose out of bed and got dressed.

  He devoted an hour to retracing his steps, making sure he wiped down everything inside the house he might have touched.

  After opening the front door, Marcus rubbed his fingerprints off the knob with a handkerchief. He tucked the garbage bag under his arm, then picked up the suitcase and the attaché case. He stepped outside and pulled the door shut.

  * * *

  After tossing the garbage bag into a dumpster behind a 7-Eleven, Marcus caught a transit bus across town to a neighborhood of narrowly spaced two-story houses with step-up porches and run-down front yards.

  He got off at the bus stop and headed down the street to a house on the corner. He strode up the steps to the front door and knocked.

  A young woman opened the door. She took one look at Marcus and screamed, “Oh my God! Marcus!” She placed her hands on Marcus’s cheeks. “Honey, we thought something happened to you! We’ve been so worried!”

  “I know, Kelly. I’m sorry,” Marcus apologized. He dropped the attaché case and the suitcase on the porch to embrace his wife.

  “Where have you been?”

  “On the streets.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Searching for—”

  “Daddy! Daddy!” an eight-year-old girl squealed, charging out of the house.

  “Amy!” Marcus hugged his daughter, covering her head with kisses.

  “Who’s there? What’s all the commotion?” an elderly woman hollered from inside the house.

  “It’s Marcus, Grandma! He’s returned!” Kelly yelled, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “Well, it’s about time!”

  Kelly gave her husband an incredulous look. “Marcus, do you realize you’ve been gone for nearly a year?”

  “I know, but I couldn’t give up. Not until I found them.”

  “Where did you get those clothes?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Marcus handed the attaché case to Kelly.

  “What’s this?”

  “Everything those creeps stole from us, down to the last penny. Finally, we have our identities back.”

  14

  CASE NUMBER: 18-08-249

  Hank checked his watch as they passed under the flickering neon light of the Speedy Mart & Gas. He noted the time at precisely eleven minutes after one in the morning. Bill parked the Crown Victoria in front of the convenience store.

  “I’d kill for a coffee,” Hank grumbled as he climbed out.

  “Better make it a double homicide, and throw in some jelly donuts.” Bill slammed his door.

  They were immediately assaulted by a strange smell.

  “Jeez! What is that?” Hank asked.

  “Maybe a dumpster caught fire.”

  The detectives ambled over to Clare, who was hunkered by one of the gas pump islands where a flatbed truck, equipped with side panels and a lift gate, was parked.

  “Hey, Clare,” Hank greeted.

  Clare peered over her shoulder, “CSI” lettered on the back of her jacket. “Hey, guys.”

  “Jesus! What do we have here?” Hank caught his first glimpse of the molten shape baked on the bubbled tarmac.

  Bill took a closer look. “He must have been a big man.”

  “Actually, it’s two people,” Clare corrected. “At least, I think it is.”

  “Oh, I see it now.”

  The charred bodies looked like two rubber action figures a kid had doused with lighter fluid and set on fire. It was impossible to determine where one body ended and the other began.

  “Kind of looks like Rob Bottin’s creature in The Thing,” Bill said.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Clare agreed.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Hank looked at Clare for clarification.

  “It’s a horror movie. What, you never saw it?”

  “I prefer Westerns.”

  Bill poked his thumb at his partner. “Hank doesn’t like scary movies.”

  “They’re just not my thing.”

  Bill and Clare exchanged glances, trying not to laugh at Hank’s chance remark.

  Hank stepped around the gas pump. The gas nozzle at the end of the hose lay near one of the blackened skulls.

  A yellow evidence marker with the number “2” identified a charred Zippo lighter.

  “Classic accident,” Hank observed. “Fool lights up while the other guy’s pumping gas, and they both go up in flames.”

  “Or it’s a botched murder attempt,” Bill quipped.

  Clare shook her head. “I think I’ll go with Hank’s theory.”

  “You’re always taking his side.”

  “That’s because I’m the logical one.” Hank gave Bill a smug look.

  “Okay, Mr. Spock.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jeez, Hank! Don’t you watch anything?”

  “You know, it’s a miracle the entire gas station didn’t go up,” Hank said to Clare.

  “A delay in the emergency shut-off closed the feed to the pump,” Clare said. “Unfortunately, not in time to save these two.”

  Bill flipped open his notepad. “Have you determined time of death?”

  Tendrils of smoke rose from the cremated mass.

  “An hour ago,” Clare said. “Maybe two.” Milton has something he wants to show you guys inside the store.”

  “Can’t be any freakier than this.” Bill stepped back from the fused bodies.

  “Oh, believe me. It is!”

  Hank and Bill walked toward the front entrance of the convenience store. They passed a forensic investigator who was shining a flashlight on the pavement, searching for clues.

  A uniformed patrolman sat in his cruiser, typing on his keyboard and detailing his report. Officer Silverman stood by the entrance door, which was cordoned off with yellow police tape. He lifted the tape so the detectives could duck beneath it. The automatic doors swished open.

  The detectives entered the store, snapping on their gloves.

  Hank smelled a cloying odor he might expect if he stuck his head into a burlap sack filled with copper pennies, fermented fruit, and rancid meat.

  He made a quick visual sweep of the store.

  In the first aisle, he saw a large puddle of brown liquid, broken glass, an empty shelf, and burst food boxes and dented cans swept onto the floor.

  Milton stood on the other side
of the checkout counter. He had a sprawling forehead and wore thick eyeglasses. He looked like a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz.

  The smell seemed to be coming from Milton’s direction.

  Bill wrinkled his nose. “Milton, did you fart?”

  “Bill Hendrix, always the comedian. Remind me to laugh.”

  Hank stepped up to the counter. “So what do we have?”

  “Well, we got this poor sap, for starters.” Milton looked down at his feet.

  Hank and Bill leaned over the counter.

  The night clerk was on the floor.

  “Where’s his face?” Bill asked.

  “Come around. I’ll show you what happened.”

  The detectives eased behind the counter, careful not to step in the large pool of blood under the clerk’s ravaged head.

  Milton directed their attention to a monitor next to a tape recorder on a shelf below the register. “I’ve already rewound the surveillance tape after watching it,” he said. “This is most bizarre.”

  The detectives watched the monitor while Milton started the tape. A black-and-white image of the store’s interior appeared on the screen. The camera was positioned to capture the checkout stand and the front of the aisles.

  A few seconds into the tape, a man lurched into the store. He staggered about, obviously disoriented. With his hands, he started batting things off the shelves and onto the floor like a big kid having a tantrum.

  Bill half laughed. “The guy’s obviously drunk! Too bad it doesn’t have audio.”

  The clerk waved his arms and pointed at the intruder. It was clear he was ordering the man to leave. It was like watching an old-time silent movie when everyone comically overacted between subtitles.

  The man turned with both arms extended in front of him. He marched stiffly toward the clerk.

  Bill gawked at the screen. “What is this? A lost reel of Night of the Living Dead?”

  “This has to be a joke.” Hank was convinced it was all a prank—until the man grabbed both sides of the clerk’s face and gnawed off his nose.

  “No way!” Bill shouted.

  It was like an overzealous pie-eating contestant—only it wasn’t a raspberry pie his head was buried in; it was the clerk’s bloody face.